,0l> 


^V1, 


"ON   THEIll   WAY   TO   MASS  AT   LES  AUGUSTINS 


IN 

OLD  FRANCE  AND  NEW 

BY 

WILLIAM  McLennan 

i 

AUTHOR   OP 

"the    span    O'    life"    "SPANISH    JOHN"    ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED 

/I!3\^^'^-^' 

ff^  1 

^ 

NEW     YORK    AND    LONDON 

HARPER   &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

1899 

By  WILLIAM  McLENNAN. 


SPANISH  JOHN.   Hlustiated.   Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  scene  of  the  storj-  is  partly  laid  iu  Italy  and  partly 
in  Scotland.  It  is  full  of  spirited  character-drawing  and 
exciting  adventure. — Boston  CongregaUonalist. 

The  lionk  is  very  properly  illustrated  in  a  lavish  fashion, 
and  will  be  found  excellent  reading. — Baltimore  Neivs. 

THE  SPAN  O'  LIFE.     By  William  MoLknnan  and 

J.  N.  MoIi.wnAiTH.    Illustrated  by  F.  uk  Mybbaoh. 

Post  Svo,  Cloth,  *1  75.  .      . 

This  iS  al  tftle'  of  Lour^b(fuiglaB]p  S"4''®^'  ^'th  a  few 

introductoij'  t-hapters  lai«>in*I,ail((oK,  where  the  hero  is 

hiding  after  tte  disaster*  of  Culloden.      He  makes  his 

escape;  to^Fj-aufe.iWhere  luBjaccepts  a.corniiri^ssion  in  the 

army  and  *is.**eVi^;'t6  flanijd^.      Hi^' humble  born  wife 

furn',shGs.aigo»(Uy  .slKwC  of-tli&Boinflfics  o/'nhis  story  of 

battle  and  the  wilderness. — N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 


NEW   YORK    AND    LONDON 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,   PUBUSHERS. 


Copyright,  1899,  by  Harper  k  Brothers. 

At!  righti  TCUTVtd. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface ix 

The  Story -telleks xxv 


AS  TOLD  TO  HIS  GRACE 

A  King  for  a  Week 5 

Monsieur  Le  Comte 19 

An  Adjustment  op  Accounts 39 

Cache-Cache 57 

An  Interrupted  Story     75 

m.  guilloux  to  the  duke 83 


CANADIAN    STORIES    OLD    AND    NEW 

Le  Coureur-de-Bois 105 

Le  Coureur-de-Neiges 125 

The  Veteran 155 

Une  Soeur 163 

mon  rocher 187 

The  Indiscretion  of  Grosse  Boule 201 

iii 


ivll865i 


CONTENTS 
MON  COMPi:RE  MELCHIOR 

PAGE 

De  Little  Modder 217 

La  Messe  De  Minuit 233 

Malouin 249 

Johnny  Rawson 263 

P'ti'  Barotjette 277 

La  Cabane 293 

JlAlUE 309 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  ON  THEIR  WAY  TO  MASS  AT  LES  AUGUSTINS  "      Frontispiece 
'THE  KING  AND  HIS    FOLLOWERS    SAT  ABSO- 
LUTELY UNMOVED  " Facing  p.    13 

'HE  CAUGHT  THE   CHILD   TO   HIM".       ...  "  33 

'  '  WELL,  MY    FRIENDS,    TO    WHAT    DO    I   OWE 

THE   HONOUR   OF   THIS  VISIT  ?'"....  "  48 

''WHAT   CAN  I   DO,  MONSIEUR?'"      ....  "  96 

'OUTAGAMI,  IN   A   SUPREME   EFFORT,  LIFTED 

AND   THREW   HIS    ANTAGONIST"     ....  "         138 

''an'    DERE    WAS    DE    CAPTAIN     AND     MAM'- 

ZELLE   LAURE'" "        234 

'  'SHE  PUT  'ER  'and  on  'ER  'EART  AND  FALL 

ON  'er  knee'" "      226 

''an'  den  DEY  come   on   DE   COUNTRY'"     .  "        336 

' '  won'  you  pass  on  DE  'ousE  an'  res'  ?'  "  .         "       243 

'  '  DEY   WAS    jus'   LIKE    ALL  DE   SPEECH   DEY 

MAKE   EVERY   TIME'" "        350 

'  '  DERE   WAS    .lOHNNIE  WID  DE    BRIDGE    ALL 

GONE'" "        356 

'  A  BYTOWN   C'EST   UN   JOLI   PLACE  "...  "         364 

'  "e  laugh  widodt  make  no  noise'".     .        "      370 

"  W'at's   DE   MATTER,  FRENCHY?' "       ...  "         278 

V 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  'DE  CANARD   NOIU    SIT  DEKE  AN'   WON'   GO 

OUT  '" Facing  p.  284 

"'an'    jus'    W'eN     DE     CANAllD     SEE    'iM     'e 

fike'" "      286 

"  '  an'   DEY  fin'   me  jus'   h'eND    up    DE   LAS' 

h'act'" "      304 

"  'I'll  can'  'elp  'im,  i'll  put  my  good  'an' 

ON  'er  'air'" "      318 


1056  Dop.niiKSTr.u  Street, 

MoNTKicAi.,  July  27,  1S09. 

Deak  Mr.  PIowells,— 

As  I  Jiave  never  had  opportunity  to  thank  you  in 
person  for  your  early  encouragement  of  my  treatment  of 
these  French  -  Canadian  sketches,  an  encouragement  ichich 
has  ahcays  been  of  the  Idghest  value  to  me,  I  look  on  it  as 
my  good  forttine  that  I  am  now  able  to  make  some  ac- 
knowledgment by  the  dedication  to  you  of  this  little  volume. 

J  am,  dear  Mr.  Howells, 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

William  McLennan. 


W.  D.  Howells,  Esq. 


PEEFACE 


In  1802  there  was  published  in  Paris,  ''chez 
Lerouge,  Cour  clu  Commerce,  passage  de  Ro- 
han, quartier  St.  Andre  des  Arcs,"  a  modest 
work  in  two  volumes,  entitled  Le  Chateau  des 
Tuileries,  by  "P.J.A.R.D.E."  The  interest  of 
these  little  volumes  lies  in  the  description  of 
an  official  visit  to  the  Tuileries  made  by  the 
Commissioner  appointed  by  RoUand,  at  which 
the  writer,  Pierre  -  Joseph  -  Alexis  Eoussel 
d'Epinal  (hence  the  formidable  string  of  in- 
itials of  the  title  and  the  "M.  d'Arde"  of  the 
stories),  with  "le  lord  Bedfort"  were  present. 

Bedford,  young,  immensely  wealthy,  simple 
in  his  mode  of  life  and  exemplary  in  his  mor- 
als— for  we  need  not  regard  Mr.  Pigott's  libel 
in  The  Jockeij  Cliib  as  holding  even  any  meas- 
ure of  truth — was  curious  to  see  the  progress 


PREFACE 

of  the  revolutionary  movement  in  France,  and 
was  allowed  every  opportunity  for  so  doing. 

The  authorities  in  Paris  were  keen  for  the 
approbation  of  the  outside  world,  and  the  sup- 
port of  a  young  noble  such  as  Bedford  was  to 
be  encouraged ;  so  he  was  allowed  to  make 
one  of  the  party  in  the  investigation,  and  a 
very  curious  recital  it  all  makes  in  the  hands 
of  M.  Roussel  d'Epinal.  In  every  chapter, 
almost  on  every  page,  is  pathetic  or  tragic 
wreckage  of  the  lives  that  were  swept  away ; 
the  King's  maps  and  ironmongery,  the  Queen's 
books  and  needle-work,  drawings  by  the  Prin- 
cesses, and,  most  touching  of  all,  the  first  let- 
ter of  the  unfortunate  little  Dauphin  to  his 
father : 

"  MoNCHER  Papa, — Je  suis  tres-aise  d'etre  en  etat  de 
vous  ecrire  pour  vous  soubaiter  une  bonne  annee,  et  vous 
dire  que  je  vous  aime  de  tout  men  coeur." 

They  found  love-letters,  letters  from  emigres 
and  other  suspected  persons,  the  King's  daily 
record  of  his  hunting,  and  a  hundred  other 
waifs  and  strays  of  personal  life  tossed  here 
and  there  amid  the  broken  furniture,  on  which 
the  crowd  had  spent  its  fury  when  there  were 


PREFACE 

no  longer  human  victims.  As  they  went  they 
talked  of  the  men  and  women  and  of  the  time 
that  had  gone;  a  name,  or  a  riddled  picture,  or 
shattered  ornament  suggested  a  stor}^  which 
was  told;  personal  experiences  during  the  trag- 
ic opening  of  the  New  Era  were  related ;  and 
Ions:  afterwards  M.  Roussel  wrote  them  down 
for  his  Chateau  des  Tu'deries,  to  make  it  one 
of  the  most  curiously  real  books  on  that  day 
that  has  been  penned. 

This  served  as  a  frame  in  which  to  set  these 
pictures  of  the  time,  two  of  which,  "A  King 
for  a  Week"  and  "An  Adjustment  of  Ac- 
counts," were  suggested  by  incidents  noted  by 
M.  Roussel.  There  is  no  foundation  for  the 
story  of  Mirabeau  and  the  little  waif  Sophie, 
nor  for  "  Cache- Cache "  ;  but  several  of  the 
least  credible  incidents  in  the  last  story  of  the 
series  are  related  in  various  memoirs  of  the 
time.  Thomas  Paine  is  said  to  have  escaped 
execution  by  a  friendly  turnkey  shutting-to 
his  cell-door,  on  the  outside  of  which  the  death 
mark  was  chalked ;  Madame  de  Gastines  was 
the  child  who  was  rescued  by  an  unknown 
officer  from  the  tumbrel  while  on  the  way  to 
"Les  ISToyades"  at  Nantes  ;  and  a  young  man 


prefacp: 

in  Orange  actually  slij)ped  from  the  fatal  cart 
in  the  same  manner  as  M.  d'Arde. 

"Le  Coureur-de-bois  "  and  "  Le  Coureur-de- 
neiges,"  which  follow,  make  something  of  a 
link  between  the  stories  of  a  historic  and  ro- 
mantic past  and  the  familiar  present. 

Dubosq,  the  central  figure  of  "  Le  Coureur- 
de-bois,"  though  he  does  not  figure  as  prom- 
inently as  La  Taupine  in  the  reports  of  the 
Intendant,  peeps  out  here  and  there  in  con- 
temporary records,  especially  in  the  letter  of 
the  Franciscan,  which  is  transcribed  at  length 
by  the  Abbe  Tanguay  in  that  interesting 
common -place  book,  A  Travers  les  Eeyis- 
tres,  which  forms  so  happy  a  supplement  to 
his  exhaustive  work  on  Canadian  geneal- 
ogy- 

Dubosq  inherited  a  strain  of  Indian  blood, 
for  his  grandfather,  Laurent  Dubosq,  a  native 
of  St.  Maclou  (Rouen),  married,  in  1662,  the 
daughter  of  Joachim  Arontio,  the  first  Huron 
chief  baptized  by  Brebeuf ;  his  mother,  how- 
ever, was  a  Frenchwoman,  and  the  family 
might  in  time  have  reverted  to  the  original 
type,  but  in  Dubosq  the  wild  blood  was  upper- 


PREFACE 

most  and   sent  him   wanderino^  amonsrst  his 
savage  kinsmen. 

This  curious  relapse  into  savagery,  to  which 
the  first  settlers  seem  to  have  been  peculiarly 
liable,  forms  one  of  the  most  interesting  phases 
of  early  Canadian  life.  Edits  and  ordonnances, 
fine,  imprisonment,  and  even  death  were  power- 
less against  the  call  of  the  woods ;  so  winning 
was  it  that,  at  one  time,  there  was  hardly  a 
family  in  Canada  which  had  not  amid  its  mem- 
bers some  outlaw  under  the  green -wood  tree. 
This  reversion  to  primitive  conditions,  with 
the  mysterious  legend  outlined  in  Mr.  Shan- 
ly's  "Walker  in  the  Snow,"  published  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  a  generation  since,  and  the 
picture  exhibited  by  Mr.  Alexander  in  the 
Paris  Salon  ten  years  ago,  forms  the  motive 
of  "  Le  Coureur-de-neiges." 

The  story  out  of  which  "The  Indiscretion 
of  Grosse  Boule"  has  grown  almost  attains 
the  dignity  of  a  folk-tale,  or  at  least  a  "conte 
populaire,"  with  us.  It  was  brought  from 
France  to  Canada,  where  it  is  preserved  with 
a  larger  proportion  of  Gallic  salt  than  is 
necessary  for  its  presentation  in  English.     In 


TREFACE 

France  it  is  known  as  "Le  Petit  Chien  Bavarcl," 
and  has  been  told  time  out  of  mind  to  the  de- 
light of  successive  generations  in  slightly  vary- 
ing form.  In  "Les  Contes  et  Joyeux  Devis" 
of  the  poet  Bonaventure  des  Periers,  who  died 
in  1544,  a  foundation  of  the  story  may  be 
found,  and,  I  am  informed,  it  exists  as  a  fa- 
bliau, though  not  in  any  collection  to  "which  I 
have  access. 

The  reinaining  stories  deal  with  a  different 
life  and  a  different  people  ;  for  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  Canadian — that  is,  the  French-Cana- 
dian— forms  a  race  by  himself. 

He  has  preserved  the  language,  the  faith, 
and  to  a  large  extent  the  characteristics  of  an 
age  which  has  passed  away,  so  that  one  is  at 
a  loss  in  any  attempt  at  classification,  or  even 
comparison,  with  the  Frenchman  of  to-day. 

Parisian  and  Norman,  Picard  and  Gascon 
as  the  first  settlers  might  be,  their  descendants 
have  fused  into  a  single  nationality,  just  as 
their  distinctive  patois  have  disappeared  into 
a  lancuajj^e  alike  from  one  end  of  Canada  to 
the  other  ;  a  language  which,  on  account  of  its 
long  isolation  and  exposure  to  the  disintegrat- 


PREFACE 

ing  influences  of  an  alien  tongue,  has  undoubt- 
edly become  to  some  extent  weakened  and  de- 
based by  the  introduction  of  foreign  Avords 
and  phrases,  but  which  has  at  the  same  time 
kept  alive  many  valuable  forms  and  expres- 
sions elsewhere  obsolete,  and  has  either  pre- 
served or  developed  an  intonation  widely  di- 
vergent from  that  now  characteristic  of  the 
mother-country. 

The  following  seems  to  me  to  be  at  least  a 
partial  explanation  of  the  development  of  the 
French-Canadian  under  the  English  rule,  and, 
in  advancing  it,  I  would  have  it  borne  in  mind 
that  I  refer  exclusively  to  the  peasantry,  and 
not  the  educated  classes. 

When  the  struggle  between  France  and 
Eno-land  ceased  in  America,  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  century,  all  that  class  which  would 
naturally  have  kept  up  an  intercourse  between 
Canada  and  her  mother- country  returned  to 
France.  All  the  officials,  both  civil  and  mili- 
tary, with  nearly  all  the  principal  families,  left 
her  shores,  and  there  remained  the  clergy,  a 
handful  of  gentry,  some  few  merchants  and 
professional  men,  and  all  the  peasantry. 

From  this  last  class  has  sprung  the  French.- 


PREFACE 

Canadian  of  to-day.  The  peasant  class  not 
only  preserved  its  virtues  —  endurance,  so- 
briety, and  thrift  —  but  it  has  furnished  the 
Church,  the  professions,  and  the  State  with 
men  whose  lives  and  qualities  ornament  their 
callings.  Most  of  them  have  attained  success 
throuofh  the  hirrh  trainino^  of  obstacle  and  self- 

o  o  o 

denial,  and  nran}^  retain  the  simple  dignity  of 
their  self-respecting  ancestors. 

When  the  last  refugees  sailed  for  France,  in 
the  spring  of  1760,  all  intercourse  between 
the  two  countries  ceased.  The  Canadian  of 
that  day  believed  his  cause  had  been  betrayed 
by  his  King,  or  rather  by  La  Pompadour.  He 
was  tired  of  war  with  its  ceaseless  exactions, 
and  accepted  the  rule  of  his  new  masters,  who 
proved  generous  in  their  protection. 

Such  news  as  drifted  over  seas  was  not  of 
a  nature  to  weaken  his  new  allegiance.  The 
trasredies  of  the  Revolution  struck  a  note  of 
horror  in  a  country  loyal  to  Church  and  King, 
and  Bonaparte  was  held  to  be  the  representa- 
tive of  all  that  was  subversive  and  evil  in  the 
new  order. 

The  Church  had  frankly  acknowledged  the 
new  regime  after  the  Treaty  of  Paris,  with  a 


PREFACE 

loyalty  that  was  never  seriously  questioned; 
the  gentry  naturally  accepted  the  footing  of 
social  equality  scrupulously  tendered  them  by 
the  earlier  governors,  and  were  equally  stanch ; 
but  it  is  more  difficult  to  speak  with  assurance 
for  the  habitant. 

Instead  of  speculation,  let  us  look  at  the 
facts  :  We  know  that  in  1775  he  was  in  the 
field  under  England's  flag  against  her  revolt- 
ed colonies  and  their  French  allies ;  that  dur- 
ing the  last  years  of  the  century  he  was  deaf 
to  the  pipings  of  the  French  Kevolutionary 
agents ;  that  in  1812,  Avhen  every  enemy  of 
Eno-land  was  a  friend  to  France,  he  added  the 
clasp  of  "Chateauguay"  to  the  first  of  his 
English  war-medals ;  and  that  if,  in  1837,  he 
raised  his  arm  in  rebellion  against  England, 
the  attempt,  in  so  far  as  he  understood  it,  was 
for  Canada  and  for  the  French-Canadian. 

He  had  become  an  English  subject,  believing 
France  had  betrayed  him;  in  time  he  had 
come  to  believe  that  England  sought  to  grind 
him  to  the  dust;  but  from  between  the  bitter 
millstones  of  Doubt  and  Despair  there  escaped 
the  tiny  stream  of  his  national  life,  his  love  for 
his  countr}^,  for  Canada,"  son  pays,  ses  amours." 
2  xvii 


TREFACE 

There  no  doubt  was  a  latent  sentiment  of 
aflfection  towards  France  during  this  long 
period,  but  it  found  no  general  expression 
until  intercourse  was  resumed  between  the 
two  countries  nearl}^  a  century  after  the  Ces- 
sion, when  the  joint  triumphs  of  the  French 
and  English  arms  in  the  Crimea,  the  arrival 
of  the  French  war-ship  La  Capricieuse  in  the 
harbour  of  Quebec  in  1855,  and  the  stirring 
poems  of  Octave  Cremazie  on  that  occasion, 
evoked  a  burst  of  enthusiasm  so  instant  that 
it  seemed  more  lil^e  a  new  creation  than  the 
resuscitation  of  a  dead  and  forgotten  ideal. 

Then  again,  instruction  in  the  country  dis- 
tricts was  almost  at  a  stand-still  during  the 
same  period.  Thus,  in  addition  to  being  cut 
off  from  the  land  of  his  origin,  the  Canadian 
learned  nothing  of  her  history  or  of  his  own. 

More  than  this,  he  was  yearly  brought  into 
closer  and  closer  contact  with  a  people  speak- 
ing a  lano^uage  which  at  once  became  the  busi- 
ness  medium;  a  people  bringing  money  into 
the  country  and  applying  it  to  private  enter- 
prise to  an  extent  before  unknown ;  who  re- 
vived old  ventures  and  created  new  industries 
—  mining,  ship -building,  the   exportation   of 


PREFACE 

lumber  and  of  grain — and  opened  up  the  larger 
channels  of  commerce. 

This  movement  and  activity  awakened  the 
attention  and  directed  the  energies  of  the  na- 
tive Canadian  towards  the  acquisition  of  the 
new  and  practical  knowledge,  rather  than  to 
the  preservation  of  the  tradition  of  a  past 
which  no  longer  touched  his  life  at  any  point. 
Thus  it  was  that  the  memory  of  the  old  days 
and  the  old  connection  gradually  faded,  until 
all  recollection  of  an  heroic  past  was  lost,  and 
whatever  slight  tradition  has  survived  is  cu- 
riously distorted  through  the  medium  of  the 
common  light  of  to-day. 

Not  that  this  is  peculiar  to  the  French-Cana- 
dian; for  a  like  result  obtained  amid  the  de- 
scendants of  a  regiment  of  Scotch  Highland- 
ers disbanded  at  Murray  Bay,  in  the  heart  of 
French  Canada,  soon  after  the  Cession.  They 
have  completely  lost  their  native  Gaelic  and 
English,  and  thoug'h  the  names  and  some- 
times  the  phvsical  characteristics  survive,  I 
have  never  met  one  amongst  them  who  could 
tell  aught  of  his  soldier  ancestor  or  of  the  part 
he  played  on  fields  still  world-famous. 

Knowing  how  completely  all  historic  sense 
xix 


PREFACE 

was  lost,  T  was  not  surprised  to  hear  a  friend 
repeat  a  story,  told  by  her  French- Canadian 
servant  Philomene,  which  was  the  old  legend 
of  the  monk,  who,  pondering  on  the  text,  "for 
a  thousand  years  are  in  Thy  sight  but  as  yes- 
terday when  it  is  past,"  stopped  to  listen  to 
the  nightingale  in  the  wood,  and  when  he  re- 
turned to  the  convent  found  that  an  hundred 
3'^ears  were  gone  and  his  world  with  them. 
But  Philomene  related  it  as  having  happened 
to  "M.  Bondel,  le  cure  de  Ste.  Genevieve," 
with  every  circumstantial  detail  of  ordinary 
life,  as  if  it  had  occurred  in  the  lifetime  of  her 
mother,  from  whom  she  inherited  the  stor3^ 
This  it  was  which  suggested  "La  Messe  de 
Minnit,"  the  legend  of  Longfellow's  "  Robert 
of  Sicily,"  of  Morris's  "  Proud  King,"  and  of 
the  "  Gesta  Romanorura."  I  have  imagined 
how  .such  a  story  might  have  been  handed 
down  from  one  narrator  to  another,  each 
knowing  nothing  of  a  wider  world  nor  of  a 
time  beyond  his  personal  remembrance. 

The  other  stories  told  by  Melchior  I  have 
gathered  here  and  there — "La  Cabane"  from 
a  runaway  Norwegian  sailor  turned  trapper 
on  the  Restiffouche  before  the  advent  of  the 


PREFACE 

railway,  "  P'ti'  Barouette"  from  a  surveyor  in 
a  brief  visit  to  civilization  and  a  club,  and  so 
on — but  their  incidents,  real  or  imaginary,  are 
in  no  case  beyond  the  ordinary  experiences  of 
life  here,  and  I  believe  the  manner  of  their  re- 
lation would  be  natural  to  any  one  of  the  half- 
dozen  Melchiors  I  have  known. 

Just  a  word  as  to  the  so-called  "French- 
Canadian  dialect."  Mr.  Rowland  E.  Robinson, 
of  Ferrisburg,  Vermont,  published  his  Sam 
LoveVs  Camps  in  18S0;  and,  so  far  as  I  know, 
it  was  the  first  attempt  to  present  the  French- 
Canadian  in  an  English  disguise  with  some  re- 
gard to  truth.  He  makes  no  effort  to  go  be- 
yond the  limits  of  a  sketch  ;  but,  within  these 
limits,  "Ant wine"  is  a  perfect  specimen  of  the 
French-Canadian,  as  the  writer  knew  him  from 
his  countrymen  passing  backwards  and  for- 
wards at  harvest-time  through  northern  E"ew 
England.  "Antwine's"  drunken  version  of 
that  highly  moral  and  temperate  refrain,  "  The 
Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  is  one  of  the  most  gro- 
tesque jumbles  ever  conceived. 

This  broken  English  has  only  one  merit, 
which  is  to  preserve  by  its  restricted  vocab- 
ulary something   of   the  direct    and    simple 


PREFACE 

method  of  the  narrator ;  on  the  other  hand, 
the  constant  temptation  to  lapse  into  the  gro- 
tesque is  an  ever-present  danger  to  the  unwary 
writer, 

No  two  uneducated  French -Canadians  ever 
spoke  English  in  precisely  the  same  manner, 
with  exactly  the  same  accent,  intonation,  or 
vocabulary.  One  has  learned  his  in  some 
shanty  where  Highland  Scotchmen  predom- 
inate, and  he  speaks  with  a  softness  of  utter- 
ance which  would  do  no  discredit  to  Kintail 
itself,  while  the  man  who  has  acquired  the 
language  common  to  the  lumber-camps  of 
Michigan  has  the  dialect  of  the  Peninsula ;  an- 
other has  been  thrown  in  with  young  English- 
men on  some  Western  ranch,  speaking  their 
language,  unflattened  as  yet  by  the  Canadian 
prairie,  or  whatever  that  influence  may  be 
which  here  robs  our  mother- tongue  of  all 
distinction,  and  he  speaks  with  a  superior  vo- 
cabulary and  phrase  and  a  decidedly  better 
intonation  than  he  who  has  picked  up  his  jar- 
gon amid  the  whir  and  click  of  the  looms  and 
pegging-machines  of  Manchester  or  of  Salem. 

Each  man  then  is  a  law  unto  himself;  there 
is  no  dialect,  and,  consequentl}",  no  measure  of 
xxii 


PREFACE 

correctness  to  be  applied.  This  speech  may 
be  quaint,  or  charming,  or  utterly  abomina- 
ble, and  yet  you  cannot  say  it  is  untrue  ;  it 
is  something  personal,  and  varies  just  in  the 
same  measure  as  the  individual. 

Melchior  speaks  only  as  Melchior;  his  vo- 
cabulary may  be  a  poor  thing,  but  'tis  his 
own,  and  the  one  criticism  to  be  applied  is, 
that  no  matter  what  may  be  the  occasion,  or 
the  difficulty  of  adequate  expression,  he  must 
keep  strictly  within  its  limits.  If  within  these 
limits  he  sometimes  contrive  to  express  him- 
self acceptabh^  imagine  how  much  better  he 
would  appear  were  he  chatting  before  the  fire 
to  his  own  people,  in  his  own  tongue. 

I  cannot  imagine  any  one  writing  a  story 
in  broken  English  who  would  not  wish  that 
he  might  set  it  forth  in  its  native  French  ; 
not  the  French  of  Fasquelle  or  Ollendorf,  nor 
yet  the  French  of  the  literary  world,  but  in 
the  tongue  used  by  our  peasantr}^,  full  of 
quaint  turn  and  antique  flavour,  with  the 
aptness  of  expression  of  a  picturesque  and 
imaginative  race. 

As  the  stories  of  "Mon  Compere  Melchior" 
were  written  at  a  time  when  I  w^as  in  much 
xxiii 


PREFACE 

closer  touch  with  the  life  they  portra}'  than 
I  am  at  present,  I  venture  to  present  them  as 
they  were  published  in  Harper's  Magazine  in 
1891-935  with  only  some  slight  simplification 
of  the  spelling.  AVhatever  value  they  then 
possessed  is  in  them  still,  and  a  more  skilful 
treatment  might  only  result  in  a  loss  of  sim- 
plicity. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  the  publishers  of 
IIaeper's  Magazine,  The  Canadian  Magazine^ 
and  Arcadia^  for  permission  to  reprint  stories 
which  have  appeared  in  these  publications. 

William  McLennan 
montbeal,  1899 


THE    STORY-TELLEKS 


THE    STORY-TELLERS 

A  DEizzLiNG  December  rain  had  driven  all 
Paris  within  doors,  but  the  cafes  Avere  filled 
with  a  laughing,  chattering  crowd  ;  and,  ex- 
cept in  those  devoted.to  extreme  political  par- 
ties, no  onlooker  would  have  dreamed  that  any- 
thing more  disturbing  than  a  winter's  storm 
swept  over  the  roofs  and  spires  of  the  fair  city 
in  that  year  of  grace,  1792. 

The  Palais  Royal  shone  and  glittered  as 
gayly  as  to-day;  the  Louvre  stood  black  and 
massive ;  and,  beyond  it,  the  long  facade  of 
the  Tuileries  loomed  mournful  and  deserted 
in  the  driving  mist  of  rain  like  a  palace  of  the 
dead.  No  light  shone  from  any  of  its  win- 
dows; no  guard  was  posted  before  its  closed 
doors,  as  if  the  horrors  so  lately  enacted  within 
its  walls  had  bestowed  immunit}^  from  further 
attack. 

Could  one  have  entered  its  closed  portals,  he 


THE    STORY-TELLERS 

would  have  journeyed  through  hall  and  cor- 
ridor appalling-  in  their  black  emptiness  before 
he  caught  a  gleam  of  light  which  shone  invit- 
ingly through  a  half-splintered  door  opening 
into  the  billiard-room.  Here  a  dozen  or  more 
men  in  the  uniform  of  the  National  Guard 
were  gathered.  Some  were  making  quiet 
cheer  round  a  fire  in  the  wide  chimney  fed 
from  a  pile  of  broken  furniture  close  at  hand, 
others  were  lazil}^  throwing  dice,  and  two  or 
three  more  were  asleep  on  mattresses  thrown 
on  the  billiard-table,  now  shoved  into  a  corner, 
where  the  score  of  the  last  games  between  the 
unfortunate  King  and  Queen  still  hung  un- 
touched. 

Besides  these  guardians  of  the  national  prop- 
erty the  only  other  inmates  of  the  palace  were 
three  men  in  an  upper  room  in  the  Pavilion  de 
Flore.  Two  of  them  were  not  over  twenty- 
five.  The  first,  evidently  an  Englishman  in 
every  line  of  his  face  and  movement  of  his 
body,  was  known  to  his  friends  at  home  as 
an  enthusiastic  and  consistent  supporter  of 
national  freedom,  and  to  the  world  at  larg-e 
as  Francis  Russell,  fifth  Duke  of  Bedford. 
The   tall   young  Frenchman    near   him    was 


THE    STORY-TELLERS 

Maitre  Jacques  Michel  d'Arde,  an  advocate 
of  Haute  Lorraine,  who  had  been  drawn  to 
Paris  by  his  enthusiastic  belief  in  the  new 
doctrines  Avhich  were  to  bring  France  back 
into  that  path  of  greatness  from  which  she 
had  wandered  so  far. 

In  his  own  home  he  had  known  and  almost 
worshipped  those  graces  which  threw  such  a 
glamour  over  the  noblesse,  in  the  person  of  the 
young  Comtesse  de  Yelesme ;  he  had  felt  the 
arrogance  and  indifference  which  as  strongly 
characterized  it  in  the  bearing  of  her  father, 
the  old  Comte,  and  its  injustice  in  liisown  posi- 
tion as  one  outside  the  favored  class;  but  he 
was  not  prepared  for  the  quiet,  womanly 
courage,  patient  under  every  galling  indig- 
nit}^,  which  he  had  found  in  the  Queen.  His 
chivalrous  nature  caught  fire  at  the  few  gra- 
cious words  with  which  she  had  acknowledg-ed 
his  forbidden  salute,  and  he  had  more  than 
once  risked  his  position  as  a  captain  of  the 
Federes  to  win  some  recognition  from  the 
woman  whom  he  had  once  known  as  "the 
Austrian." 

The  other  member  of  the  group  was  a  man 
in  middle  life,  with  a  keen,  masterful  face,  M, 


THE    STORY-TELLERS 

Maurice  Guilloux,  one  of  the  commissioners 
appointed  b\^  Roland  to  conduct  the  inventory 
and  valuation  of  such  effects  in  the  palace  as 
had  escaped  the  fury  of  the  mob. 

The  Duke  and  M.  d'Arde  had  obtained  per- 
mission to  observe  the  proceeding's,  and  M. 
Guilloux  had  shown  them  every  courtes}'^  dur- 
ing the  long  investigation.  Their  intercourse 
had  developed  a  mutual  s>^mpathy  during  their 
journey  through  the  desecrated  palace,  where 
one  room  after  another  echoed  with  the  empti- 
ness of  death,  and  each  familiar  object  of  ordi- 
nary use  suggested  the  hopeless  encounter  of 
warm,  breathing  humanity  with  the  terror  of 
destruction. 

The  apartment  in  which  they  sat  had  been 
that  of  Madame  Elizabeth,  the  King's  sister, 
and  her  dainty  furniture,  her  prie-dieu,  her 
paintings,  her  ivory  and  silver  drawing  instru- 
ments, her  books,  and  other  evidences  of  her 
devout  and  studious  life,  still  lay  scattered 
about  in  the  track  of  the  storm  as  it  had  rushed 
onward. 

A  heavy  silver  candelabrum  held  a  few 
lig-hts,  which  flickered  and  flared  as  the  fierce 
gusts  of  the  December  storm  forced  their  way 


THE    STORY-TELLERS 

through  the  uncurtained  windows  to  sweep 
through  the  hollow  rooms,  wailing  over  the 
desolation  of  the  past  and  the  impending  hor- 
ror of  the  future. 


AS  TOLD  TO   HIS   GEACE 


MAITRE  D'ARDE'S  STORY 
A  KING   FOR  A  WEEK 


M.  GUILLOUX'S   STORY 
MONSIEUR  LE   COMTE 


MAITRE   D'ARDE'S  STORY 
AN  ADJUSTMENT  OF  ACCOUNTS 


M.  GUILLOUX'S  STORY 
CACHE-CACHE 


HIS  GRACE.  THE   DUKE   OF  BEDFORD, 
AN   INTERRUPTED   STORY 


M.  GUILLOUX   TO  THE   DUKE 
A  LETTER 


A  KING   FOR  A  AVEEK 


M 


MAITRE  D'ARDE'S  STORY 
A  KING   FOR  A   WEEK 

ILORD  (said  M.  d'Arde,  drawing  the 
shattered  sofa  on  which  he  sat  nearer 
the  table),  here  is  a  story  I  heard  from 
a  confrere  in  the  cafe  last  night : 

In  the  Franche-Comte,  about  half-way  be- 
tween Besanyon  and  Yesoul,  are  three  little 
villages,  so  close  together  that  none  save  a 
native  can  determine  their  boundaries.  The 
principal  one,  with  the  church  facing  the  little 
square,  is  St.  Isart,  and  its  inhabitants  had 
heard  little  and  understood  still  less  of  the 
movement  whose  direction  and  end  we  in  its 
centre  cannot  foresee. 

One   da}^  shortly  after  the   arrest   of  the 

King  at  Varennes,  a  detachment  of  dragoons 

rode  into  St.  Isart  and  formed  up  in  the  little 

square.    The  inhabitants  gathered  quickly,  and 

5 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

after  a  flourish  from  the  trumpeter,  a  proclama- 
tion was  read  to  the  listening  rustics,  who  un- 
derstood not  a  word, but  gazed  in  open-mouthed 
admiration  at  the  |iq.ndsome  horses  and  gay 
uniforme  of  the  troop.  Then  there  was  another 
flourish,  and  the  dragoons  rode  clattering  out 
into  the  world  beyond,  of  which  these  people 
knew  nothing. 

Something  had  happened  —  that  was  evi- 
dent. But  after  long  consultation  they  were 
no  wiser  than  before,  and  it  was  not  until  a 
Sunday  or  two  afterwards,  when  the  cure  in 
obedience  to  certain  instructions,  read  forth  an 
ordonnance  concerning  the  National  Guard, 
that  they  missed  the  familiar  beginning,  "  De 
par  le  Roy." 

Here  was  the  explanation.  The  King  was 
dead.  But  then  many  could  remember  the 
death  of  the  former  King,  Louis  le  Bien  Aime, 
and  what  difference  had  it  made?  Ordon- 
nances  and  regulations  had  still  continued 
"  De  par  le  Roy."  They  had  cried,  "  Vive 
le  Roi !"  and  danced  round  the  bonfire,  and 
eaten  the  beef  and  drunk  the  wine  their  old 
seigneur  had  given  freel}''  to  all. 

But  now  —  the  King  was  dead,  and  there 
6 


A    KING    FOR    A    WEEK 

was  no  bonfire,  no  feast,  and  no  new  King  to 
take  his  place. 

Yes,  here  was  reason  for  it  all.  Did  not 
Feron  the  blacksmith  say  so  ?  Could  not  any 
one  see  it  with  half  an  eye  ?  And  though 
each  new  order  and  proclamation  was  eagerly'- 
listened  to  as  read  aloud  by  Perthius,  who 
could  read  and  write  nearly  as  well  as  the  cure 
himself,  there  was  no  "  De  par  le  Koy  "  to  re- 
assure them. 

What  should  they  do  ?  Long  and  earnestly 
they  talked,  and  were  wellnigh  crushed  under 
the  imaginary  dangers  which  the}''  conceived 
must  follow  so  unnatural  a  condition. 

Then  Tregarde,  Avho  had  served  a  good 
lifetime  in  the  army,  and  had  dragged  home 
his  shattered  body  in  its  tattered  uniform  to 
tell  his  stories  and  do  little  services  for  any 
who  would  reward  him  with  a  meal,  startled 
them  all  into  a  new  world  of  possibilities  by 
crying :  "  We  are  free  men  now  !  That's  what 
the  dragoons  said.  Each  one  in  the  whole 
country  can  do  as  he  likes.  There  is  no  King 
now  ;  every  one  knows  that ;  but,  sacre  nom 
d'une  pipe !  why  not  choose  one  for  our- 
selves ?" 

7 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

What  an  idea !  Who  but  Tregarde  could 
have  thought  of  it  ? 

Then  followed  days  of  discussion,  with  rep- 
etition of  the  same  words  and  phrases  until 
they  formed  themselves  into  ideas,  and  the 
ideas  slowly  worked  into  their  understanding, 
and  finally  into  action — and  their  King  was 
chosen. 

JSTaturally  it  was  Perthius,  for  a  King  must 
read  and  write;  and  then  his  ministers,  for 
they  knew  all  about  ministers,  were  selected 
to  advise  with  him. 

One  was  Tregarde.  True,  he  was  not  irre- 
proachable as  to  his  manner  of  life,  but  had 
he  not  seen  the  world,  and  even  spoken  with 
Monsieur  de  Soubise  and  the  Prince  de  Poix, 
and  knew  not  fear?  And  of  the  two  others, 
they  named  one  "Neckar,"  a  testimony  of  pop- 
ular trust  at  which  any  one  with  a  heart  can- 
not even  smile. 

Then  ever\^thing  went  well.  Their  seigneur 
had  fled,  but  the  new  King  and  his  minis- 
ters heard  all  cases,  and  rendered  judgment 
daily  under  the  great  elm  in  the  square  of 
St.  Isart. 

The  cure  protested  in  vain  ;  the}^  absolutely 


A    KING    FOR    A    WEEK 

would  not  listen  to  his  words  of  advice  and 
warning.  The  present  order  was  a  relief  from 
the  former  uncertainty  and  anxiety,  and  every 
one  was  satisfied  with  the  new  re^-ime. 

The  effect  was  good  on  the  principal  actors. 
Tregarde  had  not  been  inside  the  tavern  since 
his  appointment,  so  that  he  no  longer  sang 
"  Malgrc  la  bataille"  and  other  similar  ditties 
when  quieter  folk  were  abed.  The  King  and 
his  other  ministers  fully  realized  what  was 
due  to  their  position,  and  carried  themselves 
with  the  somewhat  formal  but  not  unbecom- 
ing dignit}^  very  often  found  among  the  sim- 
pler class  of  our  country  people. 

So  things  continued  for  four  or  five  days, 
and  the  cure  almost  regretted  his  sending  to 
Besancon  for  a  troop  to  break  up  the  harmless 
comedy,  when,  on  the  evening  of  the  sixth  day, 
the  King  rose  in  his  place  and  said :  "  My 
friends,  you  know  well  how  I  and  my  minis- 
ters thank  you  for  the  honour  you  have  done 
us.  But,  my  friends,  as  3'^ou  know,  and  all  the 
world  can  see,  we  are  so  busy  with  your  affairs 
all  day  that  we  cannot  work.  We  have  wives 
and  children  like  you,  and  if  we  don't  eat  we 
cannot  live." 

9 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

'No  one  had  realized  this  responsibihty  bo- 
fore,  but  now  all  willingly  accepted  it,  and  be- 
fore night  the  royal  family  and  the  ministers 
of  state  Avere  amply  supplied,  and  hearty  as- 
surances were  given  for  the  future. 

The  following  day  a  number  of  the  younger 
men  set  off  to  the  neighboring  commune, 
where,  without  leave  or  license,  the}''  proceed- 
ed to  fell  the  timber  and  carry  it  off  for  the 
ro3^al  use,  when  they  were  interrupted  by  the 
garde,  who  not  only  violently  opposed  their 
trespass  but  even  ridiculed  their  pretensions. 

This  was  too  much.  Should  this  wretch 
stand  in  the  way  of  their  public  duty?  Never! 
So  without  further  waste  of  words  they  bound 
him  hand  and  foot  and  carried  him  off  to  St. 
Isart,  where  he  was  safely  imprisoned  in  the 
mill. 

A  court  was  held  in  the  open  square,  and 
after  a  solemn  statement  of  the  case,  King, 
ministers,  and  people  unanimously  decided 
that  the  unfortunate  garde  should  be  hanged 
forthwith. 

By  this  it  was  growing  dark,  but  a  huge 
bonfire  was  quickly  built  and  started.  At  the 
unusual  sight  the  cure  had  come  out  on  the 
10 


A    KING    FOR    A    WEEK 

steps  of  the  presbytere,  where  he  was  met  by 
a  messenger  of  the  King,  requesting  his  pres- 
ence without  delay,  and  as  he  descended  to 
the  meeting,  wondering  what  new  folly  was 
afoot,  the  prisoner  was  brought  up  and  con- 
fronted with  the  authorities  he  had  set  at 
naught. 

The  King  sat  in  his  usual  place  under  the 
elm,  on  an  outstretched  branch  of  which  a 
man  was  seated,  busied  about  something,  with 
a  long  rope  loosely  wound  about  his  shoul- 
ders. 

The  garde  bore  his  restraint  impatiently, 
and  looked  threateningly  around  as  if  marking 
out  culprits  for  future  punishment.  But  the 
people  seemed  strangely  indifferent.  Every 
eye  was  directed  towards  the  lower  branches 
of  the  great  elm,  until,  moved  by  the  common 
impulse,  he  glanced  upward  and  caught  sight 
of  the  sinister  figure  appearing  and  disappear- 
ing in  the  light  of  the  leaping  fire.  Up  to  that 
moment  he  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
the  gravity  of  his  position,  treating  the  whole 
matter  as  an  annoying  practical  joke.  But 
before  his  trembling  lips  could  form  a  word 
the  cure  rushed  breathless  into  the  square,  and 
11 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

the  crowd  fell  back  until  he  stood  between  tlie 
King  and  his  victim. 

Ignoring  all  their  pretensions,  he  called  on 
the  principal  actors  by  name,  showed  them 
clearly  the  awful  crime  they  were  about  to 
commit,  urged  the  certainty  of  immediate 
punishment  —  the  troops  were  on  their  way 
from  Besan^on  even  now,  and  might  arrive  at 
any  moment.  Then  followed  threats  of  fut- 
ure condemnation,  persuasion,  and  entreaty, 
until  the  women  were  in  tears,  and  the  boys 
edged  to  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  as  if  to 
assure  escape  ;  but  the  King  and  his  followers 
sat  absolutely  unmoved. 

Cruel  they  were  not,  but  their  slow  minds 
could  not  readily  grasp  any  position  other 
than  that  which  they  had  so  gradually  as- 
sumed. 

Gravel}^,  slowly,  in  their  simple,  awful  ig- 
norance they  explained  the  man's  offence  and 
their  judgment.  They  had  not  sent  for  Mon- 
sieur le  Cure  to  speak  for  the  man — that  part 
was  ended  now  —  but  to  confess  him,  if  the 
garde  so  desired. 

Whereupon,  seeing  there  was  no  hope  but 
to  delay  until  the  arrival  of  the  troops,  the 

12 


A    KING    FOR    A    WEEK 

cure  consented,  provided  they  would  allow  hira 
to  administer  the  rite  without  interru}3tion. 
To  this  they  readily  agreed,  and  with  the  boys 
who  served  him  as  acolytes  he  walked  slowly 
towards  the  sacristy. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  hearing  he  gave 
his  instructions  to  the  eldest  lad,  and  before 
he  left  the  sacristy  the  bo}^  was  leading  his 
father's  horse  with  every  precaution  out  of 
the  village  to  ride  at  all  speed  down  theBesan- 
9on  road  and  warn  the  coming  troopers  that 
life  or  death  hung  on  their  speedy  arrival. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  silvery  sound  of  a 
bell  was  heard,  and  the  little  procession  came 
in  view,  the  boys  in  their  white  vestments 
with  bell  and  candle,  followed  by  the  priest 
bearing  the  host  upon  his  breast.  The  people 
— King,  prisoner,  men,  women,  and  children — 
fell  on  their  knees,  and  the  tinkle  of  the  bell, 
the  sobs  of  the  women,  and  the  crackle  of  the 
fire  went  up  to  the  calm  stars  above. 

The  ceremony  of  confession  was  full.  ISTo 
sentence  of  the  solemn  service  for  the  dying 
was  omitted.  The  crowd  showed  no  impa- 
tience, but,  on  the  other  hand,  gave  no  sign  of 
wavering ;  the  unfortunate  garde  was  insensi- 
13 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

ble  to  everything  but  the  words  of  the  cure, 
who  alone  betra3'ed  anxiety,  and  hstened  in  an 
agony  for  some  sound  from  theBesanQon  road. 

The  last  prayer  was  said,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  cure  bowed  his  head  in  a  silent,  pas- 
sionate appeal  for  help,  but  no  answer  came 
from  the  south.  Then,  breaking  the  silence, 
he  attempted  to  plead  again,  but  as  before  was 
firmly  refused,  and  in  another  moment  the 
helpless  victim  of  arbitrary  power  had  passed 
from  this  world  into  whatever  may  be  beyond, 
and  the  kneeling  crowd  was  repeating  the 
Litany  for  the  Dead. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  faint  rumbling,  which 
grew  louder  and  louder  until  it  shaped  itself 
into  the  heavy  thunder  of  a  troop  of  dragoons, 
which  an  instant  later  swept  up  the  main  street 
of  the  village.  At  the  entrance  to  the  square 
there  was  a  sharp  cry  of  "  Halte!"  The  fore- 
most threw  up  the  right  hand  as  a  signal  to 
those  behind,  and  the  troop  was  motionless  — 
the  men  wild-eyed  and  staring  at  the  evidence 
of  the  tragedy  before  them,  the  horses  snort- 
ing and  shaking  chains  and  accoutrements 
after  the  effort  of  their  fierce  race. 

The  crowd  of  villagers  made  no  attempt  to 
14 


A    KING    FOR    A    WEEK 

fly,  but  only  huddled  together  like  sheep  about 
their  King  and  ministers  under  the  tree  with 
its  ghastly  burden. 

The  cure  stepped  forward  and  said  a  few 
words  to  the  officer  in  command,  at  whose 
order  half  the  troop  dismounted,  formed  into 
line,  and  unslung  their  carbines. 

Another  command,  and  they  advanced  on 
the  crowd,  who  now  fell  back,  leaving  their 
King  with  his  ministers  alone  under  the  tree. 

Not  a  Avord  was  spoken  on  either  side,  but 
at  a  sharp  command  Tregarde,  with  the  in- 
stinct and  old  habit  of  the  soldier,  drew  him- 
self up,  saluted,  made  a  half-turn,  and  led  the 
way,  followed  by  his  companions,  to  the  low 
wall  joining  the  church  with  the  presbytere, 
where  they  turned  to  the  troops  drawn  up  in 
line  before  them.  Tregarde  alone  realized  the 
situation. 

At  the  word  the  carbines  moved  to  the 
ready.  The  cure  sprang  forward  towards  the 
officer,  "  Pour  I'amour  de  Dieu,  monsieur  . . . " ; 
but  was  waved  back. 

"  Pardon  me,  monsieur.  I  accept  the  re- 
sponsibility.    Present !     Fire !" 

And  simultaneously  with  the  carbines  a  tri- 

15 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

umplumt  cry  of  "Vive  le  Roi !"  rang  out  from 
Tregarde,  and  the  bodies  fell  together,  and  the 
Revolution  swept  on. 

The  young  advocate,  republican  by  principle, 
royalist  by  sentiment,  rose  to  his  feet  as  he 
finished  his  story,  and,  unmindful  of  time  and 
place,  Tregarde's  cry  of  "  Vive  le  Roi !"  went 
echoing  from  the  dismantled  chamber  out 
through  the  empty  corridors.  M.  Guilloux 
sprang  from  his  feet,  his  face  blanched  with 
alarm,  wiiile  the  Duke  quickly  lifted  the  can- 
delabrum, and  turning  it  upsidedown  extin- 
guished the  flaring  lights. 

The}''  sat  there  in  excited  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  heard  a  door  open,  and  listened  to 
the  sound  of  feet  and  voices  in  the  main  body 
of  the  palace  until  the  distant  noises  ceased,  to 
be  followed  by  the  same  hollow  stillness. 

"Without  a  word  the  three  friends  arose,  and 
groping  their  wa}''  along  corridors,  through 
rooms,  and  down  stair wa3's,  where  so  lately 
murder  and  rapine  stalked  triumphant,  found 
exit  through  a  private  door,  and  with  a  silent 
pressure  of  the  hand  each  went  his  way  into 
the  storm  and  the  night. 
16 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 


M.  GUILLOUX'S  STORY 
MONSIEUR  LE  COMTE 

IT  will  probably  never  be  definitely  known 
what  responsibility  Mirabeau  had  touching 
the  riots  at  Yersailles  (said  M.  Guilloux,  a 
few  evenings  later),  but  I  can  at  least  account 
for  some  of  his  time  during  those  two  days  and 
nio-hts.  The  afternoon  before  the  outbreak  he 
and  Dumont  dined  with  M.  de  Servan  in  his 
apartments  in  Les  Petites  Ecuries.  Host  and 
guests  were  anxious  and  preoccupied,  Mirabeau 
particularly  so,  and  when  he  slipped  away  be- 
fore dinner  was  over,  muttering  some  excuse, 
his  absence  called  forth  no  comment. 

When  the  evening  session  of  the  Assembly 
opened,  the  hall  was  crowded  with  the  mem- 
bers and  their  friends,  and  the  galleries  over- 
flowed with  the  scum  of  Paris,  who  interrupted 
the  proceedings  and  insulted  the  speakers  with 

19 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

the  unrestrained  flow  of  their  filth_y  approba- 
tion or  anger.  There  M.  Duraont  looked  and 
waited  in  vain  for  Mirabeau,  and  at  last  went 
to  his  lodging's,  where,  to  his  astonishment,  he 
found  him  in  bed,  though  the  hour  was  still 
early. 

They  returned  together,  and  Mirabeau's  pres- 
ence through  that  stormy  sitting  undoubtedly 
added  to  his  popularity. 

At  half-past  two  in  the  morning  the  Assem- 
bly adjourned,  and  Mirabeau  and  his  friend 
walked  in  the  direction  of  their  lodofing-s  at  the 
Hotel  Charost.  The  mob  was  everywhere ; 
carrying  on  its  drunken  and  obscene  orgies 
in  the  Church  of  St.  Louis,  filling  the  avenues 
and  gardens,  and  prowling  restlessly  about  the 
palace. 

Mirabeau  could  not  rest  after  the  events  of 
the  night ;  a  crisis  was  imminent,  and  sleep  im- 
possible. At  daybreak,  when  the  first  sounds 
of  the  attack  on  the  palace  were  heard,  he  took 
his  cloak  and  sword  and  made  his  way  towards 
the  scene  of  disturbance. 

As  he  passed  through  the  garden  where  the 
body-guard  so  narrowly  escaped  slaughter  the 
day  before,  he  heard  a  shrill  scream  of  terror, 
30 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

and  turning  into  the  alley  from  whence  it 
came,  received  into  his  arms  a  flying  child. 

With  a  natural  instinct  he  caught  the  child 
to  him,  and,  sword  in  hand,  faced  two  drunken 
ruffians  who  were  close  behind  her.  They 
gave  up  their  prey  at  once,  and  slunk  away 
in  the  darkness  before  the  indignant  words 
hurled  at  them  by  this  unexpected  champion. 

The  child  had  ceased  her  cries  the  moment 
she  felt  the  safety  of  his  powerful  arm,  and 
now  clung  sobbing  to  her  protector.  She  was 
too  frightened  to  look  up  or  answer  any  ques- 
tions. He  was  puzzled  for  a  moment  what  to 
do.  But  the  generous  sense  of  protection  was 
still  too  strong  within  him  to  care  to  lose  the 
confidence  of  the  little  being  whose  fluttering 
breath  was  warm  on  his  face. 

It  was  Eomance  once  more!  For  Romance 
he  had  quarrelled  with  his  family,  ruined  his 
prospects,  disappointed  his  friends,  and  brought 
misery  upon  himself ;  but  at  its  magic  call  was 
still  as  ready  to  yield  up  the  future  as  on  the 
day  he  eloped  with  Sophie  Monnier,  and  won 
his  three  years  in  Vincennes  as  a  reward. 

"Vive  Henri  Quatre  ! 
Vive  ce  roi  galant  !" 
31 


IN    OLD    FllANCE    AND    NEW 

roared  the  mob  across  the  gray  of  the  morn- 
ing, in  invitation  to  every  lawless  vagabond 
within  ear-shot. 

Mirabeau  laughed  as  the  song  reached  hira, 
"  You  must  get  on  with  your  devil's  work 
without  me,  my  loyal  citizens,"  and,  turning 
his  back  on  the  palace,  walked  slowly  to  his 
lodgings,  where  he  handed  the  half-sleeping 
child  to  his  valet,  Teutch,  who  received  his 
orders  without  astonishment  or  curiosity. 
Within  half  an  hour  she  was  quietly  sleeping 
in  the  Count's  own  bed,  and  by  eight  o'clock 
Mirabeau  was  again  in  his  place  in  the  As- 
sembly. 

The  morning  had  Avell  advanced  when  the 
child  awakened  and  sat  up,  looking  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  unfamiliar  smToundings.  Pres- 
ently the  door  opened  softly,  and  a  big,  good- 
natured  face,  surmounted  by  a  mass  of  yellow 
hair,  peered  cautiously  in.  The  child  stared 
gravely  at  the  intruder,  but  Avhen  she  caught 
the  welcome  beamed  from  the  kindly  blue  eyes 
she  smiled  back  her  welcome  in  turn,  and  con- 
fidence was  established  before  the  huge  body 
in  blue  livery  followed  the  yellow  head  and 
23 


■0 


xr'^ 


UK    CALil.UT    THE   CHILD   TO   HIM 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

blue  eyes  into  the  room.  How  quickly  and 
noiselessly  be  moved,  and  in  what  a  funny  way 
he  said,  "  Pon  jour,  mamzelle  ;  fous  avez  bien 
dormi  ?"  By  the  time  the  little  thing  thanked 
him  and  demanded  his  name,  greeting  his  an- 
swer, "  Teutch,  mamzelle,  a  vot'  service,"  with 
a  burst  of  merry  laughter,  contidence  had  be- 
come friendship. 

"  Teutch,"  she  said,  and  laughed  again  at  the 
old  name — "  Teutch,  who  sleeps  here  ?" 

"  M'sieu'  le  Comte,  mamzelle." 

"  Who  brought  me  here  last  night,  when 
those  bad  men  came  ?"  and  her  eyes  deepened 
at  the  remembrance  of  her  terror. 

"  Yes,  mamzelle." 

Then,  assuming  the  "grand  air":  "Well, 
you  must  thank  him  for  me,  and  now  I  Avill 
dress  and  go  home;  but" — and  here  she  be- 
came the  child  once  more — "you  will  come 
with  me  V 

"  Pardon,  mamzelle  ;  M'sieu'  le  Comte  said 
I  was  to  give  you  breakfast  when  you  wakened, 
and  take  care  of  you  until  he  came  back." 

"  Does  he  know  my  papa,  in  the  Guard  ?" 

"  M'sieu'  le  Comte  knows  every  one,  mam- 
zelle." 

23 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"  Good !  Now  —  breakfast.  Can  I  have 
chocolate?'' 

"  Whatever  marazelle  wishes." 

Before  he  left  his  lodgings  that  morning, 
Mirabeau,  with  his  vanity  of  doing  things  in 
his  own  way,  had  said :  "  Teutch,  when  the  lit- 
tle one  awakens,  get  her  what  she  wants,  and 
keep  her  safely  till  I  give  other  orders";  and 
Teutch,  whose  only  idea  of  right  Avas  strict 
obedience  to  his  master's  commands,  was  pre- 
pared to  follow  them  to  the  letter. 

Accordingly  the  child  was  dressed,  and  spent 
a  joyous  day  under  the  care  of  the  faithful 
Teutch.  Evening  came  without  any  message 
from  Mirabeau  ;  so  Teutch  carefull}'^  undressed 
her,  and  sat  beside  her  until  she  fell  asleep, 
prepared  to  renew  his  charge  on  the  following 
day.  But  morning  came  and  went,  and  Mira- 
beau neither  returned  to  his  lodgings  nor  sent 
any  instructions,  so  that  Teutch  did  not  con- 
sider himself  bound  to  make  any  inquiry  re- 
garding the  child.  Indeed,  such  an  attempt 
would  have  been  useless.  Her  father  was  evi- 
dentl}^  a  member  of  the  Garde-du-corps ;  the 
court  was  deserted  ;  some  of  the  Guard  had 
been  murdered,  and  the  others  had  followed 
24 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

in  the  train  of  the  hapless  King  and  Queen. 
His  instructions  were  to  see  the  child  wanted 
nothing,  and  as  he  was  sufficiently  provided 
with  money  to  supply  her  wants,  he  did  so 
without  consulting  any  one.  It  was  no  busi- 
ness of  his  to  question  the  child  as  to  her  his- 
tory, or  even  as  to  her  name ;  to  him  she  was 
simply  "  Mamzelle,"  and  "  Mamzelle  "  showed 
no  disposition  to  question  the  reason  for  her 
new  surroundings. 

Mirabeau  was  too  much  occupied  with  his 
duties  to  give  even  a  passing  thought  to  the 
little  one,  whom  he  had  never  seen  since  the 
morning  she  lay  sleeping  in  his  bed,  and  had 
gone  off  to  Paris,  when  the  Assembly  moved 
thither,  forgetting  even  her  existence. 

Teutch  waited  on  at  his  post,  fulfilling  his 
duties  as  he  conceived  them,  without  question- 
ing. As  for  the  child,  she  had  accepted  him 
from  their  first  meeting  as  a  companion,  for 
he  had  a  child's  heart  to  meet  her  under  his 
gigantic  frame.  Then,  too,  if  Teutch  was  de- 
voted to  Mirabeau,  his  charge  was  equally  de- 
voted to  the  Queen,  and  this  common  senti- 
ment of  loyalty  still  further  bound  them 
together. 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

The  removal  of  the  royal  famil}^  to  Paris  had 
greatly  disturbed  her,  and  Teutch's  account  of 
their  ominous  departure  did  not  tend  to  reas- 
surance. 

"Did  you  see  my  papa  there?  He  would 
be  near  the  carriage  ;  quite,  quite  close." 

"  'No,  raarazelle  ;  there  were  so  many.  But 
I  saw  an  officer  of  the  Guard  walking  with  his 
hand  on  the  carriage." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  my  papa ;  perhaps  it 
was,"  she  repeated,  softly  ;  and  then  inquired, 
anxiously,  "Will  those  people  hurt  the 
Queen  ?" 

"  We  hope  not,  mamzelle." 

"  Not  in  Paris  ?" 

"  ISTo,  mamzelle  ;  M'sieu'  le  Comte  is  there !" 
— a  statement  made  with  such  confidence  that 
it  was  sufficient  for  both. 

It  was  a  jo3^ous  day  for  Teutch  and  his 
charge  when  he  received  orders  to  ptKik  up  and 
proceed  to  Paris  to  join  his  master  in  his  lodg- 
ings near  the  Manege. 

The  preparation  was  a  merry  one,  and  the 
journey  a  constant  excitement,  of  which  the 
incidents  did  not  interest  the  child  so  much  as 
26 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

this  mysterious  "  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  whom 
she  was  to  see  somewhere  at  her  journey's 
end. 

At  last  the  long  day  was  over;  and  the 
child,  w^earied  out,  was  safely  asleep  in  a 
hastily  contrived  bed  in  her  new  home. 

The  following  afternoon  Mirabeau,  on  enter- 
ing his  lodgings,  was  surprised  into  a  sudden 
remembrance  of  his  thoughtless  action  by  a 
clear,  childish  voice  singing, 

"O,  Richard  !  6  mon  roi  1 
L'univers  t'  abandoime  !" 

"  Ah !  ah  !  my  little  royalist,"  he  laughed  ; 
and  opening  the  door  of  his  study,  saw  the 
little  waif  seated  in  his  own  chair,  thought- 
fully building  a  hoase  of  cards  as  she  slowly 
sang  the  forbidden  song. 

He  called  to  her  in  that  rich  soft  voice  of 
his,  which  could  be  as  tender  as  a  woman's, 
"Eh,  eh,  la  petite!" 

At  the  words  the  child  slipped  to  the  floor 
and  turned  towards  liim.  Instantly  her  eyes 
brightened,  her  face  flushed  with  a  glad  sur- 
prise, and  with  a  joyous  intonation  she  ex- 
claimed, "  Ah  !  Monsieur  le  Corate  !" 
27 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

Nothing  in  the  world  could  have  pleased 
him  so  much. 

"  Yes,  cherie  !  Monsieur  le  Comte  always, 
let  others  be  what  they  will !"  and  he  knelt  to 
'embrace  the  child,  whose  arms  for  the  second 
time  were  close  about  his  neck. 

He  happened  to  dine  alone  that  day;  but 
his  dinner  was  as  long  drawn  out  as  if  a  dozen 
guests  sat  round  the  table.  Close  beside  him 
was  his  "  little  ro3'alist,"  for  whom  every 
charm  of  his  manner  and  voice  was  as  care- 
fully studied  as  if  she  were  an  enem}'-  to  be 
won  over  or  a  friend  to  be  drawn  still  closer. 

"  Did  you  see  my  papa  ?"  she  asked,  sudden- 
ly, "  But  of  course  j^ou  did,  because  he  was 
in  the  Guard.  Teutch  saw  him  when  they 
left,  with  his  hand  on  the  carriage.  I'm  sure 
that  was  papa !  He  would  stay  near  the 
Queen.  And  that  poor  Queen !  Did  they 
hurt  her?" 

"  'No,  my  child.     She  is  safe." 

"  I  was  sure  of  that.  Teutch  said  j^ou  would 
take  care  of  her." 

"  Teutch  takes  a  good  deal  on  himself  at 
times." 

"  Eh  ?"  she  queried,  wonderingly,  and  then 
28 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

ran  on  explaining  :  "  When  we  knew  you  were 
here  we  were  so  glad.  We  knew  then  nothing 
would  happen." 

"  So  you've  converted  Teutch,  the  impassive 
Teutcli !"  and  Mirabeau  laughed  long  and 
heartily.  The  child  stared  at  him  in  surprise, 
until  she  caught  tlie  infection,  and  her  merry 
treble  mingled  with  the  joyous  roll  of  his 
laughter. 

AVhen  Teutcli  set  the  dessert  and  retired, 
the  "  little  royalist "  climbed  to  Mirabeau's 
lap,  and  sat  there  lightly  caressing  that  black 
crown  of  hair  of  which  he  was  so  proud. 

So  far,  in  his  selfish  enjoyment  of  the  pres- 
ent, he  had  stirred  no  chord  of  the  past,  but 
with  the  child's  touch  a  feeling  deeper  than 
mere  enjoyment  was  awakened,  and  he  asked, 
"  And  your  name,  my  little  one  ?" 

She  laughed  merrilj^at  an  imaginary  Teutch. 
"  How  funny !  He  doesn't  know  my  name !" 
Then,  with  a  second  happy  intuition,  the  child 
knelt,  and  taking  his  great  scarred  face  be- 
tween  her  little  hands,  kissed  him  on  the  lips 
before  she  answered,  "  Sophie." 

His  sudden  start  and  pallor  half  frightened 
her.  But  his  arms  were  about  her,  and  in  an 
29 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

instant  her  courage  returned  as  she  lay  on  that 
bosom,  torn  by  conflicting  emotions. 

Had  it  been  any  other  name — but  Sophie! 
All  his  reckless,  stormy  youth  and  passion  re- 
turned at  that  once  loved  name. 

No  !  he  would  ask  no  more  questions  !  A 
Mirabeau  was  not  to  be  governed  as  other 
men.  The  child  had  opened  up  all  his  past 
again.  She  had  come  into  his  life  without  his 
seeking  her,  and  now  he  would  hold  her  for 
the  future. 

So  from  that  day  forwaiil  the  little  Sophie 
entered  fully  into  her  new  life.  A  bonne  was 
engaged  for  her  special  service,  but  it  was 
Teutch  who  filled  up  her  waking  existence  in 
the  absence  of  his  master. 

It  was  a  strange,  unnatural  life  the  child 
led.  Her  world  was  made  up  of  Mirabeau 
and  her  two  attendants ;  there  might  be  other 
people  in  the  house,  but  she  saw  nothing  of 
them,  and  Teutch  kept  a  jealous  eye  over  her 
whenever  they  moved  abroad. 

Mirabeau  was  usually  so  occupied  during 
the  day  that  he  seldom  saw  her  then  ;  but  at 
night,  no  matter  at  what  hour  he  returned 
30 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

from  the  Assembly,  no  matter  how  disturbed 
or  weary  he  was,  as  soon  as  he  had  changed 
his  dress,  Teutch  carried  the  child  down  to 
him,  and  there  he  would  sit  with  her  on  his 
knee,  listening  to  her  prattle,  silent  under  the 
magic  of  her  touch,  until  the  excitement  with- 
in died  down,  the  irritation  was  soothed,  the 
wearmess  had  passed.  Then,  awakening  to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  hour,  he  laughed  with 
her,  and  talked  as  only  he  could  talk  to  wom- 
an, old  or  young. 

He  was  only  "  Monsieur  le  Comte  "  to  her ; 
of  his  other  life  she  knew  nothing,  and  ques- 
tioned him  about  the  Queen,  and  Madame 
Eoyale,  and  the  little  Dauphin,  without  re- 
buke or  the  slightest  knowledge  of  the  emo- 
tions her  simple  faith  was  awakening. 

"  Is  the  Queen  happy  in  your  big  Paris  ?" 
she  asked  one  night. 

"Ko,  cherie,  I'm  afraid  not,"  he  answered, 
frankly. 

"  But  she  is  not  afraid  ?" 

"  No,  my  little  royalist.  I  don't  think  your 
Queen  could  ever  be  afraid." 

"  N'ot  my  Queen  alone ;  your  Queen,  too, 
monsieur.     Say  your  Queen  !" 
31 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"Pardon,  mademoiselle  —  a  thousand  par- 
dons.    My  Queen,  certainly!"  and  he  laughed. 

"  Are  the  Tuileries  like  A^ersailles  ?"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"  You  shall  see  for  yourself,  petite.  Teutch 
shall  take  you  there  to-morrow." 

And  on  the  morrow  the  ardent  little  royalist 
was  brought  by  Teutch  into  the  gardens  of  the 
palace,  and  there,  to  her  great  delight,  she  saw 
the  Queen  laughing  with  Madame  Koyale,  as 
the  little  Dauphin  fed  his  ducks  in  the  pond, 
while  the  King  strolled  about,  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back,  without  noticing  any  one. 

She  returned  home  fully  satisfied  and  greatly 
comforted.  She  had  not  seen  her  father,  but 
that  was  only  natural ;  he  had  his  duties,  and 
as  a  gentleman  of  the  Guard  must  not  leave 
the  palace. 

Mirabeau  agreed  W' ith  her  explanation,  and 
as  time  went  on  he  brought  her  daily  news  and 
stories  of  her  beloved  Queen  and  the  royal 
children,  until  he  grew  to  share  something  of 
the  pleasure  and  enthusiasm  of  his  "little 
royalist." 

It  would  be  fanciful  to  suppose  that  the  child 
in  an}^  way  influenced  his  public  action.  But 
32 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

her  implicit  faith  in  his  nobleness  awakened  a 
sense  of  the  degradation  into  which  he  had 
wilfully  descended ;  the  purity  of  her  soul  at 
times  recalled  him  to  a  recognition  of  the  life 
he  might  have  lived  ;  at  times  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  quiet  and  repose  of  mind  such 
a  life  might  have  won. 

"When  he  decidedly  took  up  the  royal  cause, 
there  was  an  almost  triumphant  sense  of  relief 
and  freedom  in  his  intercourse  with  the  child, 
as  if  he  had  broken  down  some  invisible  barrier 
between  them. 

"  Did  you  say  something  for  the  Queen  to- 
night ?" 

"  Yes,  ma  mie,  yes,  I  said  something  to- 
night, if  never  before." 

"  I  knew  it !"  she  cried,  confidently  raising 
her  smiling  face  to  kiss  him. 

Such  returns  were  always  triumphs  to  them 
both. 

In  the  morning,  if  he  were  alone,  she  would 
beg  to  be  allowed  to  tie  his  hair,  and  was  de- 
lighted when  his  dress  was  richer  than  usual. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  will  have  to  speak  for  her 
to-day !"  and  she  arra«nged  his  lace  and  patted 
his  brooch,  and  spread  out  the  wide  skirts  of 
c  33 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

his  coat,  while  Teutch  looked  on  with  admira- 
tion, and  the  "King  of  the  People"  smiled 
with  pride. 

When  the  old  lodgings  were  abandoned  and 
Mirabeau  took  up  his  luxurious  apartments  in 
the  rue  Chaussee  d'Antin,  the  change  did  not 
in  any  way  alter  the  daily  life  of  little  Sophie. 
He  never  allowed  her  to  appear  before  the  brill- 
iant gatherings  at  his  suppers,  and  although 
he  was  surely  killing  himself  with  overwork 
and  reckless  living,  his  strong  affection  for  the 
child  never  wavered.  She  could  still  calm 
down  the  burning  passion  of  his  life  into  some- 
thing like  repose,  and  she  alone  could  rouse 
him  from  the  bitter  despondency  into  which 
he  was  thrown  by  his  recurring  storms  of  re- 
morse. 

He  was  dying  on  his  feet — "  at  the  stake," 
as  he  described  it — and  the  end  came  quickly. 
He  was  only  confined  to  bed  for  four  or  five 
days,  and  Avhenever  he  could  arouse  himself 
from  the  almost  intolerable  tortures  he  en- 
dured, turned  with  all  his  energy  to  public 
affairs.  But  his  "  little  royalist  "  was  not  for- 
gotten even  then. 

34 


MONSIEUR    LE    COMTE 

Each  night  when  the  house  was  still  she  was 
carried  down  to  sit  for  a  few  moments  beside 
the  mighty  frame  outhned  on  the  white  bed, 
to  lay  her  little  face  beside  his,  to  lightly  touch 
his  waving  hair,  and  to  receive  once  more  his 
caress  and  the  loving  farewell,  "  Dors  bien,  ma 
Sophie,"  from  the  heart  which  so  longed  for 
rest. 

Early  one  April  morning  she  awakened  to 
find  Teutch  standing  beside  her  cot.  Without 
a  word  he  picked  her  up  and  carried  her  as  she 
Avas  into  the  room  now  filled  Avith  people  whom 
she  had  never  seen  before. 

They  gaA^e  way  before  Teutch  as  he  ad- 
A^anced  towards  the  bed  with  his  little  white 
burden  ;  some  one  held  the  curtain  over,  and 
there  Avas  a  sob  from  the  heart  of  the  faithful 
servant  as  the  lips  of  the  innocent  Sophie  for 
the  last  time  touched  those  of  his  beloved 
"  M'sieu'  le  Comte." 


A^    ADJUSTMENT    OF    AC 
COUNTS 


maItre  d'arde's  story 

AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    AC- 
COUNTS 

LOUIS  ARMAND  KEGNAULT 
DE  QUATRE  -  VENTS,  Captain 
of  the  Eoyal  Guard  and  Seigneur 
of  Quatre -Vents  in  Haute- Lorraine,  bad  for 
many  a  day  rigorously  exacted  from  his  censi- 
taires  every  liard  the  law  allowed  or  tolerated. 
Personally  he  was  brave,  and  possessed  the 
virtues  inherent  in  his  class  and  calling;  but 
personally  his  censitaires  knew  nothing  of  him, 
as  for  the  last  twenty  years  he  had  lived  ex- 
clusively at  Versailles,  and,  like  men  of  his 
position,  being  constantly  in  need  of  money, 
demanded  the  last  sou  from  his  agent,  who, 
assuming  new  authority  with  each  new  de- 
mand, worried  and  harried  the  people  in  every 
conceivable  manner,  legitimate  or  otherwise. 
39 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

Lawsuits,  fines,  and  confiscations  were  the 
order  of  the  day,  and  so  long  as  the  mon- 
ey was  forthcoming,  M.  de  Quatre- Vents 
troubled  himself  but  little  as  to  the  means  em- 
ployed. 

As  for  the  people,  they  were  stolid  and  un- 
complaining enough ;  long-ingrained  habit  had 
to  a  certain  extent  reconciled  them  to  oppres- 
sion ;  a  natural,  hereditary  loyalty  had  thrown 
about  their  seigneur  and  his  family  a  tradition 
of  attachment,  and  the  grinding  and  yielding 
process  went  on  until  the  wave  of  Change, 
Awakening,  and  finally  Kevolution,  swept 
over  the  land. 

There  was  desperately  high  water  in  Paris 
before  the  storm  broke  in  Lorraine.  M.  de 
Quatre -Vents  would  gladly  have  remained 
with  the  wreck  of  the  Court,  but  after  the 
disbanding  of  the  body-guard,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  October,  1789,  he  felt  free  to  devote  his 
services  to  his  family.  He  succeeded  in  es- 
corting them  in  safety  across  the  frontier,  and 
then  returned,  accompanied  only  by  Mathurin, 
his  life-long  servant,  to  Quatre- Vents,  where  he 
arrived  at  midnight,  and  reached  the  manoi- 
without  being  discovered. 
40 


AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    ACCOUNTS 

No  attack  had  as  yet  been  made  on  the 
house. 

Zelie,  the  sohtary  servant,  was  awakened, 
and  came  hesitatingly  to  the  door  of  the 
basse-cour,  where  her  alarm  was  changed  to 
tearful  joy  at  the  sight  of  her  "  young  mas- 
ter," as  she  still  called  him,  standing,  way- 
worn but  smiling,  in  the  light  of  the  candle 
shaded  by  her  trembling  hand. 

In  the  empty  stables  some  scant  provision 
was  found  for  the  jaded  horses,  and  the  trav- 
elling-carriage was  rolled  safely  out  of  sight. 

Then,  after  a  hasty  meal,  eaten  by  the  light 
of  a  single  candle,  M.  de  Quatre-Yents  wrapped 
himself  up  in  his  cloak  on  a  sofa  which  Zelie 
and  Mathurin  had  carried  into  the  warmth  of 
the  kitchen.  Mathurin  made  himself  comfort- 
able on  a  wooden  settle,  while  old  Zelie  sat 
and  watched  through  the  long  hours  which 
precede  the  day. 

It  was  not  her  affair  to  speculate  on  this 
sudden  appearance.  She  accepted  it  as  she 
accepted  everything  else  which  came  from  the 
hand  of  the  master  she  had  seen  grow  from 
birth  to  boyhood — now  the  careworn  man 
sleeping  uneasily  under  her  faithful  eye. 

41 


•  -      IN    OLD    F 11 A X C  E    AND    N  P:  W 

The  morning  was  "well  advanced  before  the 
wearied  travellers  sat  up  and  stared  for  a  mo- 
ment at  their  surroundings  and  at  each  other, 
until  the}'-  realized  their  position,  when  M.  de 
Quatre -Vents  laughed  lightl}^  at  his  valet, 
half  servant,  half  confidant :  "  Well,  Mathu- 
rin,  we  are  nowhere  greater  strangers  than 
at  home !  Let  us  see  what  Zelie  has  been 
about." 

Zelie  had  been  about  man}^  things  since 
she  had  stolen  away  from  her  long,  silent 
watch.  Under  her  care  the  horses  had  been 
fed  and  watered,  and  a  breakfast  now  await- 
ed "  Monsieur "  in  a  room  dul}^  set  in  order, 
where,  in  snow}'-  apron,  she  stood  to  see  that 
he  wanted  nothing.  Through  the  scarcely 
opened  window  the  fresh  clear  air  of  the 
early  autumn  found  an  entrance,  inviting  the 
fugitive  to  throw  wide  the  shutters  and  let 
in  the  day  with  its  living  light  to  wander 
through  the  old  house,  as  it  had  done  for  over 
a  hundred  years  past. 

Finally,  M.  de  Quatre- Yents  turned  from  the 
table  and  said  :  "  Zelie,  ma  vieille,  I  leave  on  a 
long  journey  to-night,  and,  in  case  of  an3^thing 
happening,  there   arc   some   things   I  cannot 


AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    ACCOUNTS 

bear  to  leave  behind.  Bring  a  light  now,  and 
let  us  see  what  is  left  in  the  vault  below." 

Then  began  a  long  and  wearisome  day's 
work.  Rooms  were  opened  which  had  only 
been  used  for  an  occasional  hunting-party 
since  he  had  left  the  house  after  his  early 
marriasre.  Boxes  and  bureaux  were  ransacked. 
A  fire,  fed  with  papers  and  mementos  of  an  al- 
most forgotten  past,  was  kindled  on  the  empty 
hearth,  which  had  known  no  family  life  since 
his  own  boyhood. 

When  all  was  finished,  it  hardly  seemed 
worth  while  risking  liberty  and  possibly  life 
for  these  few  family  relics.  Some  little  plate, 
a  few  miniatures,  three  or  four  portraits  cut 
from  their  frames,  a  bundle  of  letters,  and  a 
few  dingy  tin  cases  containing  parchments, 
made  a  pitifully  small  treasure  lying  on  an 
out-spread  curtain  in  the  middle  of  the  empty 
dining-room.  But  their  very  lack  of  appreci- 
able value  evidenced  a  side  to  the  nature  of 
M.  Louis  Armand  Regnault  de  Quatre -Vents 
for  which  few  of  his  acquaintance  would  have 
o-iven  him  credit, 

B}^  eight  o'clock  everything  was  safely 
packed  and  strapped   in   place   on   the   trav- 

43 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

elling-carriage,  the  horses  were  in  good  order, 
and  the  night  promised  AvelL 

M.  de  Quatre- Vents  was  again  in  the  little 
room,  at  supper,  chatting  with  Zelie,  and  form- 
ing plans  for  her  future.  Mathurin  sat  in  the 
kitchen,  dividing  his  attention  between  a  pair 
of  pistols  and  his  huge  travelling- boots  ab- 
sorbing the  largest  possible  quantity  of  grease 
before  a  hot  fire. 

Suddenl}^  their  quiet  was  broken  by  a  dis- 
charge of  guns  under  the  windows  and  a  wild 
yell  from  a  dozen  throats,  answered  by  a  low 
cry  from  Zelie,  "  Ah  !  les  brigands  !" 

She  fell  on  her  knees,  crying:  "  Come,  mon- 
sieur— Monsieur  Louis,  come  !  The  old  hiding:- 
place  !  No  one  knows  of  it !"  and  in  her  misery 
and  terror  the  poor  creature  held  and  kissed  his 
hand  as  she  tried  to  drag  him  towards  the  door. 

With  a  sweep  of  his  napkin  M.  de  Quatre- 
Vents  extinguished  the  candles,  and  said,  quiet- 
ly :  "  Non,  non,  ma  bonne  vieille !  ]S"o  need 
of  that  yet.  All  will  come  out  well."  He  then 
passed  quickly  into  the  adjoining  room,  and 
peering  through  the  shutters,  saw  the  house 
surrounded  by  armed  men,  their  faces  fully 
lighted  up  by  flaring  torches. 
44 


AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    ACCOUNTS 

A  low  whisper  told  him  that  Mathurin  was 
close  behind,  and  a  moment  later  they  were 
both  well  armed  for  what  might  follow. 

"Mathurin,  there  is  no  use  hiding.  The 
horses  would  betray  us  in  any  case.  We  are 
fairly  caught ;  no  doubt  through  some  fault  of 
our  own."  Then,  after  a  short  pause,  he  went 
on,  rapidly :  "  Here !  let  Zelie  get  all  the 
candles  she  can  find.  Put  all  you  can  in  the 
great  lustre  in  the  drawing-room.  Break  and 
tear  up  anything  that  will  burn  quickly ;  pile 
it  in  readiness  on  the  hearth,  with  some  oil 
and  a  trifle  of  powder  to  start  it.  Get  some 
wine  and  a  glass,  and  we'll  receive  the  brutes 
as  if  they  were  our  masters — which  they  are," 
he  added,  bitterly,  as  Mathurin  felt  his  way  out 
of  the  room. 

Mathurin's  order  was  absolutely  bewilder- 
ing to  the  old  woman,  but  he  said,  severely : 
"  ISTever  mind  why !  Show  me  where  the 
things  are,  and  I'll  get  all  ready.  You  talk  to 
the  canaille,  and  keep  them  quiet.  We've  for- 
gotten how!"  he  added,  including  himself  with 
his  master  in  his  sweeping  truth  and  insolence. 

When  the  crowd  would  no  longer  listen  to 
the  old  woman's  protestations  and  prayers  they 

45 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

entered  the  kitchen,  filling  it  to  the  utmost, 
while  she,  unharmed,  beat  a  masterl}'-  retreat 
into  the  hall  of  the  main  building,  securing 
the  door  with  its  heav}^  bar. 

By  the  time  it  was  beaten  down  and  the 
crowd  surged  through  they  were  astonished 
to  find  the  hall  in  a  glare  of  light  issuing  from 
the  open  drawing-room.  Their  first  thought 
was  that  their  prey  had  escaped,  leaving  only 
his  blazing  nest  behind.  When  they  reached 
the  entrance  to  the  room  there  was  a  gasp 
of  surprise  from  the  foremost,  and  as  they 
crowded  in  a  silence  fell  on  all. 

There  was  the  great  lustre  blazing  with  lights 
as  for  some  fete  of  the  old  days,  which  the}'" 
dreamed  were  gone  forever.  Before  a  lire  that 
was  beginning  to  leap  up  the  long-unused  chim- 
ney was  M.  de  Quatre- Vents,  seated  behind  a 
small  writing-table,  with  his  cloak,  hat,  and 
sword  thrown  across  a  tall  chair  beside  him, 
giving  orders  to  Mathurin,  who  built  up  the 
fire  under  his  direction  as  methodically  and 
unconcernedly  as  if  no  one  had  disturbed  their 
privac}''.  On  the  table  was  wine,  flanked  by 
bread,  and  the  ordinary  cheese  of  the  countr}'-. 
Before  M.  de  Quatre- Yents  were  papers  and 
46 


AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    ACCOUNTS 

letters,  and  in  the  open  drawer  next  his  hand 
were  two  pistols  fully  cocked,  while  two  others 
lay  beneath  the  out-spread  cloak  on  the  chair 
beside  him. 

Many  of  the  intruders  had  never  seen  their 
seigneur  before,  and  they  stared  open-mouthed 
at  this  brown -haired,  hard-featured  soldier, 
who  seemed  utterh''  indifferent  to  their  pres- 
ence ;  older  men  were  silently  recalling  older 
days  and  older  faces  of  the  same  famil}--,  and 
the  silence  was  unbroken  save  by  the  low 
voice  of  the  master  and  the  movements  of  the 
man. 

Here  some  fellow,  with  a  sense  of  the  ridicu- 
lous, laughed  aloud,  at  which  M.  de  Quatre- 
Yents,  clapping  his  hat  on  his  head,  sprang  to 
his  feet,  while  Mathurin  moved  quickly  past 
him,  and  stood  bolt-upright  behind  the  tall 
chair. 

The  laugh  ceased  abruptl3^  Every  man  in- 
stinctively drew  himself  together  and  tight- 
ened his  hold  on  his  weapon,  when,  without  a 
word,  M.  de  Quatre-Yents  bowed  low  with  a 
mocking  sweep  of  his  hat,  replaced  it,  and  sat 
down,  with  his  right  hand  just  touching  the 
edge  of  the  drawer  with  the  pistols. 

47 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

The  rush  did  not  come.  Then,  before  the 
tension  relaxed,  M.  de  Quatre-Yents  broke  the 
silence :  "  "Well,  my  friends,  to  what  do  I  owe 
the  honour  of  this  visit?" 

There  was  not  a  tremor  nor  a  suggestion  of 
sarcasm  in  his  voice,  and  except  for  the  fan- 
faronnade  of  the  bow,  all  was  as  natural  as  if 
greeting  them  on  some  fete-day. 

With  the  softening  influence  of  the  mem- 
ories which  had  swept  over  their  hearts  a  mo- 
ment before,  the  older  men  felt  but  the  kindly 
if  masterful  manner  of  older  days,  and  the 
younger  did  not  know  enough  to  catch  the 
import  of  his  gesture. 

"  M'sieu',"  spoke  out  old  Colas,  "  it  is  a  long 
day  since  you  have  sat  here  in  your  father's 
house — since  we  have  been  able  to  speak  with 
you  face  to  face.  Since  that  day  many  things 
have  changed,  but  the  change  has  never  brought 
good  to  us.  No  matter  what  came,  we  still 
sweated  in  summer  and  froze  in  winter  to  meet 
the  demands,  always  growing  larger,  which 
M.  Michel  made  upon  us.  He  swore  that  your 
only  answer  to  our  prayers  was  that  you  needed 
the  money  and  must  have  it.  'Not  a  good  an- 
swer to  make  to  hungry  men !  We  stand  be- 
48 


AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    ACCOUNTS 

fore  you  in  arms  to-night,  which  I,  for  one, 
never  thought  to  do ;  but,  m'sieu',  before  we 
speak  further,  let  us  all  know  from  your  own 
mouth  if  you  ever  heard  of  this — and  this — " 

Thereupon  the  old  man  told  story  after  story 
of  oppression  and  injustice,  until  M.  de  Quatre- 
Vents's  face  grew  dark  with  indignation  ;  but 
he  listened  without  interruption  until  the  tale 
of  patient  endurance  and  suffering  was  ended. 

When  the  old  man  had  finished,  M.de  Quatre- 
Yents  turned,  and  whispered  some  orders  to 
Mathurin,  who  without  a  moment's  hesitation 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  which  fell 
back  right  and  left  at  his  advance  without  a 
word. 

The  men  all  stood  motionless,  eying  M.  de 
Quatre  -  Yents,  who  sat  immovable,  with  his 
chin  on  his  hand,  staring  moodily  at  the  table 
before  him.  In  a  few  moments  Mathurin  re- 
ap})eared,  carr3"ing  a  small  case,  which  he 
placed  in  front  of  his  master  and  unlocked. 

Then  M.  de  Quatre- Yents  removed  his  hat, 
closed  the  little  drawer  on  his  right,  and  said: 
"  My  friends,  greater  wrongs  have  been  done 
you  than  I  knew  of — greater  wrongs,  unfort- 
unately, than  I  can  right.  I  am  a  much  poor- 
D  •  49 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

er  man  than  an}^  of  you  to-da}',  for  I  am  leav- 
ing my  country  and  m}'^  home  without  any 
knowledge — with  hardl}^  a  hope — of  the  day 
when  I  may  return.  When  you  entered  here 
I  never  thought  to  pass  through  the  door 
alive;  but  now  I  know  my  life  would  be  a 
sorry  repayment  for  the  wrongs  3'^ou  have 
sustained.  Colas,  I  appoint  3'ou  to  distribute 
the  gold  in  this  case  among  my  people  as  far 
as  it  will  go,  and  if  my  fathers  before  me  have 
worked  some  good  towards  yours  in  the  past, 
that  must  suffice  to  make  up  the  balance.  I 
am  persuaded  that  I  leave  Zelie  safe  in  your 
hands,  and  perhaps,  for  the  sake  of  a  woman's 
faithfulness,  you  will  spare  this  old  house  while ' 
she  lives." 

There  was  a  hurried  consultation  among  the 
leaders  as  M.  de  Quatre- Vents  arose,  and  Ma- 
thurin  handed  him  his  hat,  fastened  on  his 
sword,  and  arranged  his  cloak  over  his  shoul- 
ders. 

Then  old  Colas  again  spoke  up :  "  Non,  non, 
m'sieu',  we  will  not  do  this  !  The  things  which 
touch  us  most  cannot  be  paid  off  by  money ; 
but  the}'^  are  gone  now,  wiped  away  by  the 
words  you  have  spoken.  As  for  the  rest,  each 
50 


AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    ACCOUNTS 

one  can  tell  just  how  much  be  has  been  forced 
to  pay  unjustly.  "We  have  not  talked  these 
matters  over  on  winter  nights  to  have  any 
need  now  for  a  notary  to  draw  up  our  ac- 
counts.    Pay  each  as  he  can  show  cause !" 

M.  de  Quatre- Vents,  with  somewhat  of  his 
old  manner,  laughed  as  one  laughs  at  a  child ; 
but  throwino-  back  his  cloak  and  drinkini]:  off 
his  glass,  he  said,  "  Come  then,  begin  !" 

The  task  seemed  unending.  Most  of  the  de- 
mands were  trifling,  but  each  claimant  insisted 
on  going  into  every  detail,  no  matter  how  dis- 
tant, and  on  showing  the  justness  of  his  claim 
down  to  the  last  livre,  until  M.  de  Quatre- 
Vents  began  to  yawn  with  very  weariness, 
and  to  regret  the  piquancy  had  died  out  of  the 
adventure.  Hour  after  hour  dragged  away, 
M.  de  Quatre- Vents  bravely  trying  to  keep  up 
some  appearance  of  interest,  when  his  atten- 
tion was  aroused  by  a  hot  dispute  between 
Colas  and  two  claimants. 

"  No,  no  I  I  tell  you  I  will  not'  allow  it ! 
The  business  was  settled  in  open  court,  and 
you  have  no  right  to  rob  m'sieu' !" 

The  others  as  hotly  insisted.  But  M.  de 
Quatre -Vents  cut  the  argument  short  with, 
61 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

""What's  the  amount?"  and,  in  spite  of  the 
protestations  of  Colas,  paid  over  the  money, 
to  the  evident  satisfaction  of  the  majority — 
and  at  last  the  claimants  were  exhausted. 

Thereupon  Mathurin  set  forth  in  search  of 
Zelie,  and  a  dozen  bottles  of  wine  were  brought 
up  and  distributed  among  the  leaders. 

As  they  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  slow- 
ly withdrew,  old  Colas  turned  and  said  in  a 
low  voice  trembling  with  emotion:  "Adieu, 
m'sieu'!  We  will  ever  carry  in  our  hearts 
what  you  have  done  to-night.  It  will  never 
be  forgotten  by  us  or  by  our  children.  May 
the  blessing  of  God  be  with  you  wherever  you 
may  go  !  He  alone  can  hold  you  safe  in  these 
evil  daj'^s,  which  are  only  beginning." 

Tired  and  overtaxed  with  the  long  strain, 
M.  de  Quatre- Vents,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on 
the  old  man's  shoulder,  said,  with  a  weary  and 
hopeless  laugh  :  "  Evil  days  indeed.  Colas ; 
but  I  will  trust  more  to  m}'^  Fate  thau  to  your 
God !  Adieu,  adieu  !"  and  he  raised  his  glass 
to  his  lips,  and  then  shattered  it  in  pieces  on 
the  hearthstone  at  his  feet. 

Colas  crossed  himself  at  the  ominous  sound, 
and  hastened  after  the  others,  who  trooped 

52 


AN    ADJUSTMENT    OF    ACCOUNTS 

down  the  great  avenue  towards  the  viUage  in 
silent,  decorous  order. 

As  soon  as  the  house  was  cleared,  M.  de 
Quatre- Vents  said,  shortly  :  "  Now,  Mathurin, 
don't  lose  an  instant !  Our  friends  there  may 
change  their  minds  at  any  moment.  We'll 
take  the  upper  road,  and  don't  spare  the  whip, 
once  we  are  out  of  hearing." 

Old  Zelie  followed  her  "young  master"  out 
into  the  court  as  the  horses  were  put  in,  and 
her  prayers  followed  him  after  he  had  drawn 
to  the  door  of  the  carriage,  which  was  soon 
lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees. 

M.  de  Quatre -Vents  sat  in  the  darkness, 
wearied  in  body  and  sick  at  heart.  He  did 
not  for  a  moment  hide  from  himself  that  his 
late  action  was  merely  the  result  of  an  impulse 
which  had  died  away  as  quickly  as  it  had 
arisen.  His  patience  and  restraint  were  neces- 
sities to  the  role  he  had  assumed,  and  he  de- 
spised his  acting,  in  comparison  with  the  gen- 
erous and  manly  acceptance  of  his  sacrifice  by 
his  censitaires. 

Mathurin  was  now  moving  at  a  good  pace, 
when  suddenly  there  was  a  hoarse  shout  in 
53 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

front,  and  the  horses  leaped  forward  under  a 
fierce  cut  of  the  whip. 

M.  de  Quatre-Vents  sprang  to  his  feet — saw 
a  fire  burning  by  the  road,  and  some  figures 
making  for  the  horses'  heads  ;  he  took  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance,  and  shouted :  "  Stop, 
Mathurin  !  Stop !  They  have  forgotten  to 
send  word  to  these  fellows.     I  will  explain  !" 

But  the  words  had  not  passed  his  lips  be- 
fore there  was  a  flash,  a  deafening  report,  and 
the  terrified  horses  flew  on  wildly  into  the 
night,  while  in  the  bottom  of  the  carriage  lay 
all  that  was  mortal  of  M.  Louis  Armand  Eeg- 
nault.  Seigneur  de  Quatre-Vents. 

His  Fate  had  betrayed  him ! 


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M.  GUILLOUX'S  STORY 
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DUEING  the  early  summer,  in  1Y86,  M. 
'     Maurice  Lenormant  brougiit  his  bride 
home  to  his  handsome  hotel  in  the 
rue  Dauphine,  near  the  corner  of  the  rue  de 
Bussy. 

It  was  purely  a  love-match  on  both  sides. 
In  position  and  fortune  they  were  nearly 
equal ;  their  families  had  held  high  rank  in 
Normand}^  for  generations ;  they  both  were 
young,  and  were  united  by  common  sympa- 
thies and  aims. 

But  before  another  summer  opened  he  bore 
her  forth  from  the  home  in  which  they  had  so 
fondly  planned  their  future ;  that  had  vanished 
now  and  forever,  leaving  only  her  memory  and 
her  babe,  Aline. 

To  the  child  M.  Lenormant  turned  in  his 
57 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

desolation  with  a  tenderness  and  care  which 
were  unfailing' ;  and  as  she  grew  okler,  every 
hour  he  could  spare  from  his  public  duties  was 
devoted  to  her. 

She  grew  up  a  singularly  attractive  little 
thing,  inheriting  much  of  the  sturdy  Norman 
blood,  for  she  was  strong-limbed  and  dark- 
haired,  full  of  high  spirits,  and  absolutely  fear- 
less. 

When  '89  brought  the  first  outward  sign  of 
the  New  Era,  Lenormant  threw  himself  heart 
and  soul  into  the  cause  of  libert}'',  and  his 
self-imposed  duties  increased  as  every  month 
brought  its  unforeseen  difficulties  and  compli- 
cations. Heavy  as  his  actual  duties  were,  they 
were  rendered  heavier  by  the  constant  thought 
of  the  lonely  child  in  the  empty  house  in  the 
rue  Dauphine.  Yet  he  could  not  bear  to  send 
her  away  among  comparative  strangers,  for 
the  rare  hours  he  could  spend  with  her  were 
his  only  rest  and  solace  from  his  arduous  la- 
bors. As  for  the  child,  she  quickly  accustomed 
herself  to  the  gradual  change,  and,  childlike, 
found  a  new  object  round  which  her  affection 
and  life  could  centre.  This  was  the  Suisse,  as 
all  porters  in  private  houses  were  then  called, 
58 


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a  great  strapping  fellow  from  the  family  estate 
in  Normandy,  rejoicing  in  the  name  of  Bazile 
and  in  his  manly  proportions  set  forth  in  the 
glory  of  a  red  and  gold  livery.  Bazile  was  en- 
tirely devoted  to  the  child,  and  Lenormant  had 
even  more  confidence  in  him  than  in  Lizette, 
the  bonne,  so,  as  Aline  was  contented,  he  was 
free  to  pursue  his  work  without  anxiety  for 
the  care  of  his  little  one. 

Lizette  was  kind,  and  her  patience  untiring, 
but  then  her  stories  of  "  la  poulette  grise  " 
were  not  like  those  of  Bazile.  Hour  after  hour 
the  dark- haired,  bright -faced  child  sat  in  the 
lodge  of  "her  Suisse,"  listening  to  his  wonder- 
ful stories,  or  learning  his  long  complaintes  of 
dead -and -gone  kings  and  princesses  and  cap- 
tains and  fairies  of  far-off  Normandy. 

People  passing  or  calling  at  the  house  were 
struck  by  the  queer  companionship.  Many 
were  amused,  others  were  scandalised,  among 
them  Madame  d'Averolles,  who  lived  opposite ; 
she  went  so  far  as  to  rebuke  M.  Lenormant  for 
the  folly  of  allowing  the  child  to  mix  with  such 
"  manants." 

"Madame,"  he  answered,  "it  was  such  'ma- 
nants' whom  our  ancestors  protected,  and  b}^ 

59 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

whose  help  we  won  snch  honours  as  we  yet 
hold." 

So  Aline  was  allowed  to  revel  in  her  fairy- 
land of  kings  and  queens  within  the  lodge  of 
"  her  Suisse,"  while  in  the  world  outside  the 
stern  realit}^  was  working  towards  its  end  un- 
known to  child  or  servant. 

But  Aline's  happiest  days  were  when  Bazile 
walked  behind  her  and  Lizette  on  their  way 
to  mass  at  Les  Augustins.  Then  she  was  la 
grande  dame  de  par  le  monde,  and  never  for 
a  moment  did  she  forget  the  dignity  of  her 
role.  Not  the  slightest  trace  of  familiarity 
towards  Bazile,  who,  on  his  part,  was  equal- 
ly particular  that  his  young  mistress  should 
as  properly  play  her  part  in  her  natural  sphere. 

Thus  the  months  went  on,  and  though  the 
child  saw  but  little  of  her  father,  she  was  happy 
in  her  own  way  in  her  own  world.  Her  world 
became  yet  more  restricted  in  the  spring  of  '92, 
as  M.  Lenormant  was  forced  to  forbid  any  expe- 
ditions into  the  streets,  for  even  into  their  quiet 
quarter  disturbances  were  carried  by  crowds, 
who  appeared  without  Avarning  and  vanished 
as  suddenly,  like  an  ugly  dream.  The  restric- 
tion hardly  distressed  Aline,  for  she  did  not 

GO 


C  A  C  H  E  -  C  A  C  H  E 

care  for  her  walk  now  that  Bazile  was  only 
dressed  in  sober  black ;  red  cloth  and  gold 
lace  and  powder  had  all  been  blown  away  a 
good  year  ago  by  the  rising  storm  •  the  streets 
had  lost  all  the  colour  and  life  to  which  she  was 
accustomed,  and  she  had  lost  her  interest  when 
the  old  gayety  disappeared. 

Besides  this,  she  had  compensations.  Bazile's 
usual  duties  as  porter  had  dwindled  down  to  an 
occasional  opening  and  closing  of  the  doors,  for 
people  rarely  called  at  the  house  in  daytime 
now,  so  Aline  had  him  for  herself.  Many  a 
day  he  and  Lizette  would  play  for  hours  with 
her  in  her  now  unused  drawing-room. 

They  had  many  games,  but  the  favorite  for 
all  three  was  cache-cache  (hide-and-seek),  and 
they  played  in  this  wise  :  Bazile  left  the  room, 
with  strict  iiij unctions  to  remain  at  the  very 
end  of  the  hall  until  he  heard  Aline's  signal; 
Aline  directed  Lizette  to  stand  behind  a  screen 
or  curtain — she  took  too  keen  an  interest  in 
the  game  to  hide  herself — and  then  her  call  to 
Bazile  rang  out.  The  child  stood  before  the 
concealing  curtain  or  screen,  her  e3'es  flashing 
with  merriment,  and  hardly  able  to  refrain 
from  shouts  of  delight  as  Bazile  made  fruit- 

61 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

less  search  behind  chairs  and  sofas,  moved 
the  heav}''  vases  beside  the  fireplace,  pretended 
to  look  behind  the  mirrors,  but  never  found 
the  hidden  Lizetto  until  ^Yarned  b\'  the  impa- 
tient movements  of  Aline  that  the  game  had 
gone  far  enough.  Lizette  was  thereupon  duly 
discovered,  and  their  burst  of  merriment 
crowned  the  climax  of  the  excitement. 

Could  any  one  tire  of  such  a  pleasure  ?  Cer- 
tainl}^  these  two  devoted  souls  showed  no  signs 
of  flagging,  nor  ever  failed  to  answer  the  de- 
mand of  the  fun-loving  child.  Cache-cache 
was  "  her  game,"  as  Bazile  was  '*  her  Suisse." 

Then  there  were  sights  to  be  seen  from  the 
windows.  So  many  people  passed.  Very  few 
carriages,  to  be  sure  ;  but  there  were  soldiers, 
the  like  of  whom  Aline  had  never  seen,  whose 
fantastic  uniforms  were  unknown  to  Bazile. 
Sometimes,  too,  there  were  terrible  wild-look- 
ing men  and  women  hurrying  along,  singing 
and  shouting,  at  whom  Aline  stared  curiously, 
but  before  whose  approach  Bazile  carefully 
shut  and  barred  the  large  doors. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  the  summer,  and 
no    one   but    Bazile   ever   ventured    into  the 
62 


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streets.  M.  Lenorraant  had  given  strict  orders 
that  the  large  doors  were  to  be  kept  fastened 
at  all  hours,  and  no  one  was  to  enter  unless 
known  to  the  suisse. 

One  hot  midnight  in  August  a  distant  bell 
was  heard  tolling,  tolling,  until  answered  ])y 
the  clang  and  boom  of  other  bells  and  the 
rolling  of  drums  from  all  quarters  of  the  city. 
Til  rough  the  early  morning,  crowds  trooped 
out  from  their  holes  and  hiding-places,  and 
went  sweeping  through  streets,  tramping  over 
bi'idges,  until  they  centred  at  the  Tuileries. 

Before  the  morning  was  over,  there  came 
from  the  other  side  of  the  river  the  heavy 
roar  of  cannon,  the  sharp  rattle  of  musket- 
ry, and  a  never-ending  howling  as  of  wild 
beasts. 

Poor  Lizette,  agonized  with  terror,  could  do 
nothing  but  tell  her  beads.  Bazile,  with  an 
anxious  face,  went  about  the  house  endeavour- 
ing to  make  some  attempt  at  work,  but  the 
other  servants  never  descended  from  their 
quarters  in  the  attics. 

Aline  alone  was  undisturbed,  but  greatly 
bored,  and  inclined  to  be  fretful. 

Why  could  not  Lizette  leave  off  her  stupid 

63 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

prayers?  Why  conld  not  Bazile  sing  "C'etait 
Anne  de  Bretagne  "  with  her  as  before? 

Her  father  had  forbidden  her  to  go  near  the 
windows  unless  with  Bazile,  who  to-day  would 
not  even  open  those  giving  on  the  street,  and 
on  the  garden-side  there  was  nothing  to  see. 

So  the  child  passed  the  long  day,  her  first 
happy  moment  being  when  Bazile  carried  her 
down  into  the  empty  kitchen,  where  for  an 
hour  she  again  enjoyed  life,  as  she  watched 
him  make  the  fire,  warm  up  lier  bouillon,  and 
prepare  her  dinner.  She  then  made  him  feed 
her  bit  by  bit  until  she  was  satisfied;  which 
little  necessity  of  ordinary  work  went  far  to 
restore  the  realities  of  life  to  the  anxious 
Suisse. 

After  he  had  eaten  a  little  at  the  imperious 
command  of  the  child, he  carried  her  upstairs 
again,  and  made  an  attempt  to  rouse  Lizette 
to  some  effort  of  her  duty.  Straggling  bands 
began  to  pass  through  the  quarter  again, 
and  leaving  Aline  in  charge  of  the  bonne,  he 
climbed  to  the  highest  windows  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  and  his  heart  sank  within  him  at 
the  sight  of  flames  bursting  upward  in  the 
direction  of  the  Tuileries,  and  the  constant, 
64 


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uninterrupted  howl  from  the  scattering  mob. 
He  stood  there  fascinated  by  the  sight  of  the 
burning  buildings,  and  the  horrible  readiness 
with  which  he  pictured  the  scenes  passing 
round  the  leaping  flames,  until  aroused  by- 
cries  in  the  street  below.  Kunning  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  he  looked  down  on  a  drunk- 
en, shrieking  rabble  passing  in  wikl  and  bestial 
triumph  with  the  sickening  trophies  of  their 
murderous  success  whirled  and  brandished 
on  swaying  pike-heads. 

It  froze  the  very  life  in  his  veins  as  he 
looked ;  but  the  mob  was  at  least  returning,  to 
slink  back  into  its  dens  once  more,  and  he 
trusted  the  worst  was  over  for  this  time.  So 
down-stairs  he  came,  with  a  greater  sense  of 
security  than  he  had  yet  felt,  to  entertain 
Aline  and  reassure  Lizette. 

At  Aline's  request  he  carried  her  down  into 
the  drawing-room,  and,  after  carefully  closing 
the  shutters  and  drawing  over  the  heavy 
curtains,  lighted  up  all  the  candles  in  the 
lustres. 

The  great  room,  with  its  yellow  hangings, 
its  brilliant  mirrors  and  graceful  furniture, 
shone  in  the  golden  light,  and  the  child  was 

E  65 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

delighted  at  the  cheerful  brightness  after  her 
dreary  day. 

Then,  would  not  Bazile  put  on  his  livery  ? 
He  was  not  like  "her  suisse"  at  all  in  this 
nasty  black,  and  all  would  be  like  the  old  days 
once  more. 

After  all,  Revolution  or  no  Revolution,  was 
he  not  M.  Lenormant's  suisse?  Was  not  his 
only  duty  now  to  please  the  child  ?  So  in  a 
short  time  he  reappeared  in  all  the  forbidden 
glory  of  his  long-disused  red  and  yellow  liv- 
ery, with  his  brown  hair  as  carefully  powdered 
as  of  old. 

Aline  was  delighted  ;  she  clapped  her  hands 
and  danced  round  him  as  he  beamed  upon  her 
from  his  imposing  height. 

At  last  she  quieted  down,  and  for  over  an 
hour  Bazile  held  her  enraptured  by  his  never- 
failing  stories,  and  then  her  clear  voice  follow- 
ed his  through  the  complicated  roulades  and 
embellishments  of  their  favourite  songs. 

All  this  time  the  noises  in  the  street  went  on ; 
but  they  had  become  almost  indifferent  to  the 
street  and  its  people.  The  mob,  with  its  bru- 
tality, was  shut  out  by  the  heavy  walls  and 
closed  windows,  and  they  lived  in  a  world  of 


CACHE-CACHE 

candle-light  and  repose,  far  apart  from  other 
people,  with  whom  they  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon, and  who  went  on  their  own  way  without. 

Bazile  and  Aline  were  just  in  the  middle  of 
"  Le  grand  Due  de  Maine,  briguedondaine," 
and  were  dimly  aware  that  the  tumult  in  the 
street  had  grown  fiercer,  when  the  song  was 
frozen  on  their  lips  by  the  awful  scream  of  a 
man  in  his  death-agony,  high  above  the  fiend- 
ish 3'elling  of  the  mob. 

Catching  up  the  child,  Bazile  ran  with  her 
to  Lizette's  room,  where  he  left  her  in  charge 
of  the  fear-stricken  girl,  and,  promising  to  re- 
turn in  a  moment,  flew  to  the  entrance-doors. 

Peering  cautiously  through  the  judas,  he 
saw  the  broad  street  filled  with  the  same 
awful  creatures  in  a  mad  riot  of  murder  and 
ferocity.  Their  constant  howl  was :  "  Les 
suisses !  les  suisses !  a  bas  les  suisses !" 

As  he  looked,  there  was  an  attack  made  on 
the  hotel  of  Madame  d'Averolles ;  but  before 
the  tragedy  was  complete,  a  woman's  voice 
rose  high  and  shrill  over  all,  "En  v'la  un 
autre !"  At  her  direction  part  of  the  mob 
turned  with  a  savage  howd  towards  M.  Lenor- 
mant's — and  Bazile  knew  his  hour  was  come. 
67 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

The  heavy  doors  would  hold  them  back  a 
few  moments.  As  he  quickly  glanced  over 
the  fastenings  to  see  all  was  secure,  and  then 
flew  up  the  stairs,  he  knew  instinctively  how 
the  mob  must  have  attacked  the  Swiss  Guard 
at  the  Tuileries,  and  now,  in  its  devilish  igno- 
rance and  cruelty,  it  was  hunting  to  death 
the  unfortunate  porters,  or  suisses,  in  private 
houses. 

Whether  the  doors  held  or  not,  he  must  see 
that  Aline  was  safe  with  Lizette.  He  did  not 
believe  for  a  moment  that  either  of  them 
would  be  harmed,  for  the  mob  as  yet  had  not 
touched  women  or  children. 

When  he  opened  Lizette's  door  he  found 
the  girl  on  the  floor  by  the  bed,  speechless 
with  terror,  but  no  sign  of  Aline. 

Leaving  the  bonne, he  ran  through  the  house 
calling  for  the  child,  but  his  call  brought  no 
reply.  He  was  lessening  his  chances  of  escape 
terribly  by  such  delay,  for  the  storm  of  blows 
rained  fiercely  on  the  doors  below. 

Sick  with  anxiety  for  the  child,  he  ran  from 

room  to   room,  until  he  again   reached  the 

lighted  salon,  and  there,  undisturbed,  sat  Aline, 

greeting  him  with  laughter  at  his  discomfiture. 

68 


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With  a  cry  of  relief  he  sprang  forward  and 
caught  her  in  his  arms  ;  but  as  he  turned  to 
run  through  the  hall  to  reach  Lizette's  room, 
he  heard  the  doors  go  down  amid  a  trium- 
phant yell — and  he  was  too  late  ! 

With  a  single  bound  he  was  back  again. 
He  shut  the  door  quietly,  and  striding  across 
the  room,  placed  the  child  on  the  floor  by  one 
of  the  windows. 

Escape  seemed  impossible,  but  "with  a  cour- 
age never  surpassed  by  human  creature,  he 
knelt  beside  Aline,  and  said,  quickly  :  "Ecoute, 
ma  belle.  We  are  going  to  play  '  our  game.' 
Onl}',  wild  men  are  coming  to  find  me ;  but 
you  must  not  be  frightened.  It  is  the  same 
game.  You  will  just  stand  in  front,  and  say 
nothing.     Now !" 

There  was  a  wild  rush  up  the  staircase,  and 
a  moment  later,  when  the  mob  burst  from  the 
darkness  of  the  hall  into  the  peace  of  the 
lighted  room,  they  saw  only  a  round -eyed 
child  of  five  in  a  white  dress  standing  in  front 
of  one  of  the  yellow  brocade  curtains  in  the 
recess  of  the  window. 

She  Avas  startled,  but  stared  undaunted  at 
the  dreadful  creatures  who  poured  through 
69 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

the  opened  doors.  Bat  they  knew  the  game, 
and  that  was  something.  So  she  shook  her 
black  curls  and  recovered  her  composure  as 
she  saw  them  begin  to  search  in  earnest,  and 
almost  laughed  aloud  when  one  of  them  thrust 
his  sword  up  the  chimney. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  examine  the  room, 
with  its  fragile  furniture.  She  wondered  wh}^ 
they  did  not  pretend  to  look  in  more  places, 
like  Bazile;  they  never  moved  the  vases  or 
looked  behind  the  mirrors  at  all. 

As  they  passed  by  her,  some  one  cried  out, 
"  The  window !"  and  with  a  slash  of  his  sabre 
a  ruffian  ripped  down  the  curtain  beside  Aline, 
and  the  crowd  laughed  as  another  held  out  the 
butt  of  his  pike  to  the  fearless  child,  who 
mockingly  clapped  her  hands  at  him. 

This  was  something  like  the  game ! 

That  was  very  near ! 

But  suddenly  Aline's  face  fell  and  her  lip 
began  to  tremble  with  disappointment,  for 
the  rabble  had  turned,  and  were  making  their 
way  out  of  the  room  as  quickly  as  they  had 
entered. 

This  was  not  her  game  at  all ! 

They  mustn't  go  away  and  the  game   not 

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half  finished  !  No,  no !  That  is  not  the  way 
at  all!  And  in  her  childish  fearlessness  she 
ran  after  the  retreating  ruffians,  and,  catching 
at  the  filth}'^  rags  of  the  hindermost,  called 
out,  "Ah,  lost!  lost!" 

"  What  ?"  he  thundered. 

She  hardly  understood  the  uncouth,  fierce 
cry,  and  was  terrified  at  the  evil  face  turned 
upon  her,  but  it  was  "  her  game,"  and  she 
bravely  went  on,  "  You  couldn't  find  him!" 

At  his  first  hoarse  shout  the  rabble  had 
turned,  and  stood  expectant. 

"  Find  whom  ?"  * 

"  My  Suisse !     My  Bazile  !" 

The  mob  surged  back  into  the  room  with  a 
low  growl,  but  the  fairy-like  form  of  Aline 
went  flying  before  them,  and  with  a  ringing 
laugh  of  delight  she  swung  aside  the  heavy 
curtain;  and  there,  unshrinking,  in  all  the 
hated  insignia  of  his  office,  "  her  Bazile,  her 
Suisse,"  stood  face  to  face  with  the  ravening 
mob. 


AN    INTER EUPTED    STORY 


HIS  GRACE,  THE  DUKE  OF   BEDFORD 

AN    INTERRUPTED    STORY 

ONE  evening  in  his  room  the  Duke 
turned  to  his  friends  and  asked :  "  Per- 
haps, gentlemen,  you  may  never  have 
heard  how  my  late  father  insisted  on  telling  a 
story  to  the  Due  de  Choiseul  ?" 

"  We  are  listening,"  smiled  M.  Guilloux, 
while  M.  d'Arde  nodded  eagerly, 

"  I  have  no  distinct  remembrance  of  my 
father,"  began  the  young  Duke,  "  for  he  died 
when  I  was  still  a  child,  but  I  know  he  added 
to  his  ability  a  somewhat  quick  and  imperious 
temper.  In  '62  he  was  accredited  to  your 
court  to  conclude  the  terms  of  the  treaty  upon 
which  the  fate  of  Canada  was  to  be  de- 
cided. 

"  The  Duke  de  Choiseul,  although  then  Min- 
ister of  War  and  Marine,  was  the  actual  power, 

75 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

and  all  the  terms  were  quickly  agreed  upon, 
save  certain  points  which  touched  the  protec- 
tion of  the  fishing  rights  of  your  nation. 

"  Neither  would  listen  to  any  compromise ; 
my  father  declared  that  the  point  must  be 
yielded  in  his  favour,  as  his  instructions  were 
positive.  'Very  well,'  ans\vered  M.  de  Choi- 
seul,  hotly ;  '  then  War !  You  are  at  liberty 
to  withdraw  whenever  it  may  suit  your  con- 
venience.' 

"  My  father,  highly  indignant,  was  about  to 
reply  as  hotly,  but  suddenly  controlled  him- 
self, and,  dropping  into  his  natural  tone,  said : 
'  But,  mon  cher  due,  you  must  listen  while  I  tell 
a  little  story.' 

"  M.  de  Choiseul  replied,  very  dryly,  that  he 
might  spare  himself  the  trouble,  bat  my  father 
went  on,  unheeding :  '  It  was  only  the  other 
day,  when  walking  through  the  grounds  of  M. 
Bouret,  that  I—'" 

At  this  point  the  young  Duke  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  heavy  trampling  of  feet  in  the 
outer  passage,  followed  by  a  sharp  rat-tat-tat 
of  a  cane  on  the  panel  of  the  door  of  the  ante- 
chamber and  a  quick  turn  of  the  handle.  The 
door  was  locked,  and  an  impatient  voice  was 
76 


AN    INTERRUPTED    STORY 

heard :  "  Open,  open,  citizens,  in  the  Name  of 
the  Nation !" 

The  servant  appeared  with  a  blanched  face 
at  the  inner  door. 

"  What  shall  I  do,  milord  ?" 

"  Open,  open,  citizen,  in  the  Name  of  the 
Nation  !"  laughingly  answered  the  Duke. 

The  three  friends  waited  a  moment  in  si- 
lence ;  they  heard  the  door  unlocked  and 
pushed  violently  open,  a  few  impatient  de- 
mands from  the  intruders,  and  when  the  inner 
door  was  held  back  again  it  w^as  to  admit  three 
men — the  leader  arrayed  in  all  the  dignity  of 
cockade  and  scarf. 

"Le  citoyen  anglais,  styling  himself  Bed- 
fort?"  he  queried,  with  curt  incivility. 

The  young  Duke  turned  towards  the  speaker 
and  said,  smiling,  "I  am  Francis  Russell,  whom 
most  men  call  the  DuJce  of  Bedford." 

"  Il-m-m,  brown  hair,  high  complexion,  large 
nose;  h-m-m,  yes,  yes,  that  answers  the  de- 
scription. Well,  Citoyen  Franfois,  or  Russell, 
or  whatever  you  may  choose  to  style  yourself, 
we  are  not  too  sure  of  your  motives  ;  and  in  its 
paternal  solicitude  for  inquisitive  strangers,  as 
well  as  its  own  children,  the  Nation  has  de- 
77 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

creed  that  all  foreigners  must  leave  France 
within  twenty -four  hours  after  receiving  no- 
tice, which  I  now  hand  you." 

D'Arde,  who  was  boiling  with  indignation 
throughout  this  diatribe,  stepped  forward. 
"  Come,  come,  my  fine  fellow,  the  Nation 
gives  you  no  right  to  insult  peaceable  citizens, 
and  if  you  don't  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your 
head  I'll  throw  3^ou  down-stairs." 

"Not  so  loud,  ray  big  country  game-cock! 
You  were  wearing  a  uniform  a  few  months 
ago,  and  where  is  it  now  ?  Have  a  care  how 
you  crow,  for  I  have  my  eye  upon  you,  and 
you  may  find  yourself  in  water  hot  enough  to 
draggle  your  feathers  before  you  know  what 
has  happened." 

D'Arde  was  about  to  put  his  threat  into 
execution,  when  M.  Guilloux's  hand  dropped 
heavily  on  his  shoulder.  "  Have  a  care,  have 
a  care,  my  friend ;  you  may  only  compromise 
the  Duke." 

The  whispered  warning  was  sufficient,  and 
D'Arde  controlled  himself,  while  the  Duke, 
who  had  glanced  over  the  paper,  turned  to  the 
official,  and  said,  quietly  :  "  Your  instructions 
are  exact,  Citoyen — " 

78 


AN    INTERRUPTED    STORY 

"Loches,"  answered  the  man,  somewhat 
mollified. 

"_Citoyen  Loches,  and  I  have  ever  been 
too  honest  an  upholder  of  public  order  to  resist 
such  a  demand  for  a  moment.  Let  me  have 
my  passport  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  trouble 
the  Nation  no  longer  with  my  insignificant 
presence,"  and  with  perfect  coolness  he  bowed 
the  commissioner  and  his  following  out  through 
the  antechamber,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
their  clattering  heels. 

"  The  whole  affair  appears  to  me  to  be  false 
on  its  very  face.  There  never  has  been  any 
such  order  passed,  milord,"  said  M.  Guilloux. 
"  This  man  is  certainly  not  a  regular  official, 
bad  as  they  are.  Why  not  apply  to  Danton  ? 
I  am  sure  this  is  the  work  of  some  private 
enemy." 

But  his  Grace  only  laughed.  "  It  has  spoiled 
my  story,  at  all  events,  and  things  have  now 
come  to  such  a  pass  here  that  I  can  do  no  good 
by  remaining." 

The  friends  consulted  long  and  earnestly,  and 
separated  at  midnight  with  hearts  full  of  fore- 
bodino-.     The   following   dav   the   Duke   left 
Paris,  never  to  enter  her  walls  again. 
79 


M.    GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 


M.   GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

A  Monseigneur, 

Monseigneur  le  Due  de  Bedford, 
a  son  Chateau  de   Woborn, 
Comte  de  Bedford, 
En  Angleterre. 


M 


Paris,  Thermidor,  Van  11. 
y  LORD, — I  have  an  opportunity  to 
send  this  by  a  safe  hand,  and  hasten 
to  apprise  you  of  the  fate  of  our 
friend  M.  d'Arde,  with  whom  we  passed  so 
many  pleasant  hours  a  long  year  and  a  lialf 
ago. 

It  did  not  require  any  great  insight  into  the 
future  to  foresee  the  path  into  which  he  was 
drifting,  and  you  already  know  how  the  death 
of  the  unfortunate  King  drove  him  completely 
from  the  ranks  of  the  extreme  party. 

He  was  aware  that  he  was  closely  watched  ; 
but  to  leave  France  was  impossible,  and   to 
83 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

return  home  was  even  more  dangerous  than 
to  remain  here. 

On  the  morning  of  the  16th  of  October  last 
he  dressed  quietly,  and  took  up  his  position, 
with  others,  in  the  Place  de  la  Eevolution,  to 
look  for  the  last  time  on  the  face  of  Marie 
Antoinette,  whose  heroic  courage  had  first 
opened  his  eyes  to  the  other  side  of  the 
struggle. 

At  noon,  when  she  reached  the  scaffold, 
there  was  more  or  less  disturbance  at  various 
points  in  the  crowd,  probably  excited  by  creat- 
ures expressly  employed  for  this  purpose. 

Our  friend  was  standing  quietly,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  unfortunate  princess,  whom  he 
had  learned  to  reverence  as  his  Queen  dur- 
ing the  weary  months  of  her  sufferings, 
Avhen  he  was  startled  by  a  harsh  voice  beside 
him : 

"  Where  is  your  cockade,  citizen  ?" 

He  turned,  and  saw  close  behind  him  the 
ominous  face  of  Loches,  whom  you  will  re- 
member as  the  soi-disant  official  on  the  night 
of  your  departure,  now  one  of  the  public  ac- 
cusers. Without  a  word,d'Arde  fixed  his  eyes 
again  on  the  scaS'old,  only  to  be  tapped  inso- 
84 


M.   GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

lently  on  the  shoulder  and  to  hear  the  ruflBan's 
brutal  voice  raised  in  the  same  question : 
"  Where  is  your  cockade,  citizen  ?" 

Kecognizing  his  intention,  d'Arde  sensibly 
suppressed  his  anger,  and  remonstrated,  "  Mais, 
mais,  monsieur — " 

"  No  more  monsieu7'  than  yourself,  mon 
aristo  !"  interrupted  the  spy ;  "  all  honest  men 
are  citizens  together  now !  Have  you  ever 
cried  '  Yive  la  Republique,'  mon  p'tit  avoue  ?" 
he  continued,  bound  to  pick  a  quarrel. 

"  I  have,  citizen,"  answered  d'Arde,  with  ad- 
mirable coolness. 

"  Then  shout  it  now,  coquin !"  screamed  the 
brute,  as  the  axe  fell. 

With  a  cry  of  disgust  d'Arde  turned  and 
struck  his  tormentor  full  in  the  face. 

There  was  a  scream,  a  struggle,  and  before 
our  friend  fully  realized  what  had  happened, 
he  was  half-way  across  Paris,  on  his  way  to 
the  Conciergerie. 

For  more  than  two  weeks  I  could  hear  no 
word  of  him,  and  feared  he  had  perished. 
My  first  move  was  to  enter  his  rooms,  burn 
every  paper  which  could  possibly  compromise 

85 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

him,  and  secure  his  valuables.  Then  I  set  to 
work,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  finding  that  he 
was  confined  in  one  of  tlie  dungeons  with 
some  of  the  worst  criminals.  There  was  no 
specific  charge  against  him.  Loches  had  dis- 
appeared, so  I  had  him  removed  to  the  main 
corridor,  where  he  had  a  cell  to  himself,  the 
liberty  of  the  large  hall,  and  even  got  so  far 
as  to  visit  him  once,  when  I  handed  him  a  sum 
of  money  to  secure  him  what  comforts  were 
possible. 

lie  had  found  friends  there — the  old  Comte 
de  Yelesme  and  his  daughter,  the  principal 
family  of  his  native  town.  The  old  Comte 
was  a  completely  broken  man.  He  barely 
tolerated  our  friend,  whose  unvarying  kind- 
ness and  unceasing  self-denial  were  accepted 
by  the  Comte  as  a  natural  offering  due  to  one 
of  his  exalted  position.  With  the  petulance 
of  a  child,  the  old  gentleman  blamed  him  per- 
sonally for  the  crimes  of  the  whole  Revolution, 
including  his  individual  misfortunes.  But  our 
young  friend  bore  with  it  all ;  and  why,  my 
lord? 

The  question  would  not  be  difficult  to  an- 
swer did  you  know  Mademoiselle  Arline. 
86 


M.   GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

Whatever  burden  of  ingratitude  the  old  Comte 
endeavored  to  lay  upon  M.  d'Arde  was  borne 
equally  by  his  bright-eyed  friend,  separated 
from  him  by  tlie  great  iron  grating.  Prison 
flowers  grow  apace,  my  lord,  and  if  ever  the 
flower  of  love  took  deep  root,  it  was  in  the 
hearts  of  these  two  J^oung  people. 

The  winter  dragged  out  its  long  tragedj''  of 
death  and  despair ;  the  old  Comte  grumbled 
and  growled  disconsolate,  inconsolable,  and 
before  spring  came  died  in  the  faithful  arms 
of  the  man  he  had  dared  to  despise  in  his  self- 
ish arrogance. 

The  awful  prison  was  ever  filling,  ever  emp- 
tying, but  these  two  lived  on  uncalled-for, 
unnoticed ;  it  seemed  as  if  even  Death  had 
forgotten  them. 

At  the  risk  of  instant  execution  if  discov- 
ered, they  joined  hands  through  the  bars,  and 
amid  the  tears  and  laughter,  the  coming  and 
going  of  that  ever  unquiet  centre,  were  made 
man  and  wife  by  a  priest,  who  ventured  his 
life  to  add  a  gleam  of  happiness  to  two  pass- 
ing souls. 

The  summer  came,  and  the  prison  was  even 
87 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

more  intolerable  than  in  the  winter;  few  of 
their  original  fellow-prisoners  remained;  but 
the  Conciergerie  was  none  the  less  full.  The 
rule  of  Robespierre  and  his  creatures  was  at  its 
height ;  the  former  pretence  of  trial  had  now 
dwindled  down  to  a  hurried  examination,  the 
summons  to  which  was  given  by  the  jailer 
during  the  previous  evening,  at  an  hour  whose 
uncertainty  added  to  its  terror,  and  in  the  early- 
morning  a  chalk-mark  on  the  door  of  the  cells 
told  who  were  to  be  taken. 

One  evening  in  July  the  unfortunates  sat  in 
their  usual  expectancy,  awaiting  the  coming 
of  the  jailer  with  his  fatal  list. 

D'Arde  stood  at  the  grating  beside  Arline 
when  the  door  opened  to  admit  the  jailer  and 
his  clerk,  accompanied  by  an  unknown  man, 
evidently  of  some  authority.  They  advanced 
into  the  middle  of  the  room,  under  the  light  of 
the  lantern  hung  from  the  vaulted  ceiling,  and 
the  jailer  began  to  read  aloud  what  he  play- 
fully called  "  les  extraits  mortuaires." 

Name  after  name  was  called,  and  was  re- 
ceived in  silence :  "  Jean  Coulet,  gendarme, 
twenty-four  years;  Pierre  Franpois  Daulhac, 
ex-abbe,  thirty  years ;  Arline  Tourigny,  here- 
88 


M.    GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

tofore  Comtesse  de  Yelesme,  aristocrat,  twenty 
years." 

"Oh,  my  God!  my  God !"  moaned  Arline  in 
her  sudden  terror  as  she  fell  half  fainting 
against  the  grille.  The  three  men  looked  up 
at  her  faint  cry. 

"  She  thought  we  had  forgotten  her,  la  sainte 
Nitouche !"  laughed  the  jailer. 

The  official  looked  sharply  at  d'Arde  for 
a  moment.  "  Who  is  that  tall  fellow  beside 
her?"  he  whispered. 

The  clerk  turned  over  his  list  and  read : 
"D'Arde,  Jacques  -  Michel,  Haute  Lorraine. 
Here  since  October.  Was  a  federe  on  service 
at  the  Tuileries.     No  special  charge." 

D'Arde  looked  anxiously  towards  the  group. 
The  face  of  the  new  official  seemed  strangely 
familiar,  but  before  he  had  time  to  recall  it, 
his  own  name  was  read  out — "  Jacques-Michel 
d'Arde,  advocate,  twenty-six  years  !"  and  he 
turned  to  whisper  joyfully  to  the  fainting  girl : 
"  Courage !  courage,  ma  mie !  We  are  to- 
gether !" 

At  an  early  hour  in  the  morning  d'Arde  was 
up  and  dressed,  impatient  for  the  opening  of 
89 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

his  cell.  When  the  door  was  at  length  swung 
back  he  called  the  turnkey,  and  placing  his 
few  remaining  gold  pieces  in  his  hand,  begged 
for  a  last  favour — that  Arline  should  be  placed 
in  the  same  cart  with  him.  The  man,  a  Swiss, 
named  Straale,  who  had  all  along  shown  him 
much  kindness,  consented  readily,  and  d'Arde 
awaited  patiently  for  his  call. 

The  short  hours  passed  ;  he  heard  voices  and 
the  sound  of  footsteps  through  the  prison; 
the  noises  outside  increased,  and  he  knew  what 
was  passing  in  the  court  below. 

The  door  of  his  cell  was  slammed  to,  sud- 
denly. He  stared  at  it  for  a  moment  in  sur- 
prise, then  instantly  sprang  forward  and  began 
to  beat  upon  it  with  all  his  strength,  crying 
after  the  retreating  turnkey.  The  man  re- 
turned, unlocked  the  door,  swung  it  open 
again,  and  left  on  his  round  without  a  word, 
while  d'Arde  stood  trembling  within  the  nar- 
row limits  of  his  cell.  The  death -mark  had 
been  chalked  upon  his  opened  door  that  morn- 
ing, and  Straale,  moved  by  sudden  impulse, 
had  shut  to  the  door,  thus  forcing  life  in  upon 
his  prisoner,  who  only  longed  for  death  with 
her  his  soul  desired. 

90 


M.   GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

Presently  the  head  jailer  began  his  round  ; 
he  stopped  at  cell  after  cell  to  deliver  his  brief 
summons  to  the  condemned,  until  "  Jacques- 
Michel  d'Arde  1"  came  like  an  order  of  release 
to  the  waiting  prisoner. 

He  joined  a  little  group,  and  with  them 
passed  through  the  familiar  corridor,  with 
one  last  glance  at  the  great  hall,  in  which  he 
had  found  a  joy  passing  all  his  suffering,  then 
through  doors  and  passages,  until  they  joined 
the  main  body  of  the  victims  in  the  outer  hall. 

He  glanced  quickly  about,  without  catching 
sign  of  Arline,  but  he  instantly  determined 
that  she  must  have  gone  on  before. 

Each  prisoner's  hands  were  securely  bound, 
and  then  one  by  one,  as  their  names  were 
called,  they  entered  an  adjoining  room,  and 
went  through  the  pitiable  mockery  of  a  trial. 
There  was  practically  no  charge  against  d'Arde ; 
but  he  refused  to  reply  to  the  questions  put  by 
his  judges,  for  in  the  man  sitting  beside  the 
chief  official  he  recognized  the  triumphant  face 
of  Loches  the  informer.  He  heard  his  fate 
without  emotion,  and  was  led  away  to  join 
the  condemned. 

"  All  here !"  rang  out  a  stentorian  voice. 
91 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

The  great  doors  were  slowly  opened  ;  a  file 
of  soldiers  passed  out  and  formed  up.  There 
was  a  refreshing  rush  of  cool  morning  air,  but 
d'Arde  hardly  felt  it ;  there  was  a  hoarse 
murmur  from  the  waiting  crowd,  but  he  was 
not  conscious  of  it ;  all  his  senses  were  con- 
centrated towards  one  object.  The  moment 
he  stepped  on  the  threshold  he  raised  himself 
to  his  full  height — and  ^aw  the  three  waiting 
carts  were  empty.     He  was  to  die  alone ! 

For  the  first  time  since  his  imprisonment  he 
broke  down  ;  and,  Englishman  though  you  are, 
my  lord,  I  know  you  will  count  it  no  shame 
that  the  tears  sprang  to  those  eyes  which  no 
fear  had  ever  dimmed.  He  stood  there,  see- 
ing nothing,  hearing  nothing,  thinking  only  of 
the  terrible  misery  of  the  poor  creature  he  had 
left  behind  ;  thinking  of  how  short  this  weary 
journey  would  have  been  had  she  stood  beside 
him. 

How  slowly,  slowly,  the  dismal  little  pro- 
cession moved  forward!  Gradually  he  recog- 
nized things  about  him,  and  saw  they  were 
entering  the  Eue  St.  Antoine;  he  became 
aware  that  there  was  unusual  disturbance  on 

93 


M.   GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

the  quays  ;  there  were  stoppages  in  their  slow 
progress ;  twice  had  the  carts  been  arrested, 
and  the  uproar  and  crowding  in  the  narrow 
street  forced  the  soldiers  to  use  their  muskets, 
to  the  intense  anger  and  irritation  of  the  press- 
ing crowd,  Avhose  attacks  were  directed  rather 
against  them  than  against  their  prisoners. 

He  roused  himself,  and  saw  in  front  of  him, 
in  the  same  cart,  a  mother  with  her  three 
dauorhters,  the  eldest  not  more  than  twelve. 
A  man  in  a  long  military  cloak  pressed  close 
to  the  cart,  and  d'Arde  heard  him  sa}'^,  dis- 
tinctly, "  I  can  save  one,  madame." 

"  'Toinette,  maman  ;  save  'Toinette !"  whis- 
pered the  other  two;  and  when  the  man  was 
forced  away  from  the  wheels  the  little  one 
was  safe  under  the  folds  of  his  cloak. 

D'Arde  realized  that  a  dozen  eyes  must  have 
seen  the  rescue,  but  no  alarm  was  given,  and 
the  deliverer  disappeared  without  difficulty  in 
the  pressing  crowd. 

Then  for  the  first  time  awoke  a  fierce  desire 
for  life  and  liberty.  Why  should  he  die  like  a 
dog,  and  never  raise  his  hand  to  help  Arline  ? 

He  sat  down  at  the  back  of  the  cart  un- 
noticed, and  at  the  next  disturbance,  which 
93 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

was  fiercer  than  ever  about  the  foremost  carts, 
he  slipped  off,  and  in  a  moment  had  reached 
the  side  of  the  street,  and  was  moving  along 
in  the  same  direction  as  the  crowd,  with  his 
bound  hands  against  the  wall. 

No  hand  was  raised  against  him  ;  every  eye 
was  directed  towards  the  soldiery  and  their 
charge.  Scarcely  daring  to  credit  his  good 
fortune,  he  found  himself  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  Tison,  and  moving  quickl}^  up  it,  always 
with  his  back  against  the  wall,  gained  the  Kue 
du  Roi  de  Sicile,  which,  to  his  joy,  was  entire- 
ly deserted. 

He  stopped  at  the  angle  of  a  house,  and  set 
to  work  to  cut  away  his  bonds  against  the 
sharp  stone.  But  as  he  sawed  at  the  tough 
cords  he  heard  footsteps,  and  a  moment  later 
saw  a  man  rounding  the  corner  and  rapidl}^ 
approach,  with  his  face  muffled  in  his  cloak. 

D'Arde's  position  was  too  compromising 
to  admit  of  any  attempt  at  concealment;  he 
would  risk  his  fate  and  boldly  ask  for  assist- 
ance. "Citizen — "  he  began,  before  the  pass- 
er-by perceived  him. 

The  man  looked  up.     It  was  Loches. 

With  a  shout  of  hatred  the  informer  leaped 
94 


M.   GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

at  his  throat,  but  with  a  cry  of  equal  fierce- 
ness d'Arde  sprang  to  meet  him,  and  with  his 
shoulder  struck  him  full  under  the  chin.  The 
man  fell  without  a  cr}^,  and  lay  insensible  on 
the  stones.  The  effort  had  broken  d'Arde's 
bonds,  but,  without  a  look  at  his  enemy,  he 
picked  up  his  hat  and  hurried  on,  with  an  ex- 
ultant feeling  of  renewed  strength  and  resolve. 

Hastily  undoing  the  remnants  of  cord,  he 
thrust  them  into  his  pockets,  and  kept  on  his 
way  through  the  quiet  streets,  careless  of 
where  he  wandered,  so  long  as  he  left  the 
noise  of  the  mob  behind.  But  want  of  food 
and  the  excitement  of  the  past  hours  began  to 
tell  upon  him,  and,  to  his  alarm,  he  found  him- 
self staggering  from  weakness. 

At  a  corner  he  saw  a  small  fountain. 
Hurrying  towards  it,  he  drank  eagerly,  and 
then,  removing  his  hat  and  coat,  bathed  his 
face  and  swollen  wrists. 

While  so  employed  he  heard  steps,  and 
turned  expectant  of  fresh  peril,  but  the  new- 
comer proved  to  be  a  young  girl  of  seventeen 
or  eighteen,  bearing  her  pitcher.  The  unusual 
sight  of  a  gentleman  thus  performing  his  toilet 
in  public  made  her  hesitate,  but  he  spoke  at 
95 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

once :  "  Mademoiselle,  I  am  an  escaped  pris- 
oner; my  name  is  d'Arde.  If  you  like,  you 
can  give  me  up ;  but  if  I  read  your  face 
aright,  I  am  safe  in  your  hands." 

"What can  I  do,  monsieur?" 

"  Can  you  take  me  somewhere  where  I  can 
have  an  hour's  rest  and  something  to  eat  ?" 

"Willingly,  monsieur;  you  can  come  with 
me." 

"But  not  to  your  home,  mademoiselle.  I 
have  no  right  to  bring  danger  to  your 
roof." 

"  Come,  come,  monsieur ;  I  am  sure  ray  fa- 
ther will  approve.  Besides,  there  is  little  dan- 
ger of  any  one  observing  you  at  this  hour  if 
you  do  not  enter  with  me." 

She  filled  her  pitcher,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  he  followed  her  across  the  little  square, 
entered  a  narrow  street,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  behind  a  half-opened  shutter,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  was  in  safety  in  her  humble 
apartments. 

In  a  short  time  he  was  refreshed  and  anx- 
ious to  depart,  but  she  urged  him  to  wait  until 
her  father  returned.  Any  one  might  suspect 
him,  with  his  white  face  and  thin  beard.  If 
96 


WHAT   CAN   I   DO,  MONSIEUR  ?' 


M.   GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

monsieur  could  shave  himself  she  would  bring 
her  father's  razors.  He  shaved  careful!}^,  and, 
after  dressing  his  hair,  was  a  different-looking 
man  from  the  escaped  prisoner  of  a  few  hours 
before.  He  agreed  to  wait  until  the  father 
returned,  and  in  the  interval  his  hostess  told 
him  their  simple  story.  Her  father  was  a 
watch-maker ;  so  was  her  brother,  but  he  had 
been  hurried  off  to  the  frontier,  under  pain  of 
death,  and  they  had  heard  nothing  of  him  since 
Longwy. 

He  told  her  something  of  his  own  story, 
and  she  was  full  of  sympathy  and  thoughtful 
suggestion.  If  he  would  help  poor  despairing 
madame,  his  first  care  must  be  for  his  own 
safety  ;  and  he  had  better  not  venture  out 
until  dusk. 

He  felt  the  truth  of  her  warning,  and  forced 
himself  into  an  apparent  quiet,  but  the  long 
July  day  seemed  never-ending,  and  in  his  anx- 
iety a  vague  suspicion  was  aroused.  Was  the 
girl's  father  really  a  watch-maker?  and  was 
her  story  as  true  as  it  was  simple  ? 

At  last  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  cry- 
ing, "Ah,  there  he  is  !"  his  hostess  flew  to  open 
it.  D'Arde  arose  apprehensive,  but  his  fears 
G  97 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

took  flight  at  the  sight  of  the  honest  face 
beaming  in  kindly  greeting. 

It  only  required  a  few  words  of  explanation 
to  insure  a  welcome  for  his  unexpected  guest ; 
and,  with  his  welcome,  he  cried :  "  But,  mon- 
sieur, there  is  news — great,  wonderful  news ! 
Robespierre  is  arrested  ;  they  say  he  is  dead  ; 
at  all  events,  an  end  has  come,  and  we  are  free 
men  once  more!" 

My  lord,  that  same  evening  the  honest 
watch-maker  sought  me  out,  and  in  his  own 
house  I  once  again  held  in  my  arms  our  friend 
returned  from  the  dead. 

Before  another  day  France  was  free  from 
the  tyrant  who  had  so  long  held  her  in  terror  ; 
in  their  joy  the  people  were  rushing  to  the 
other  extreme  ;  the  doors  of  more  than  one 
prison  were  thrown  open  to  release  the  inno- 
cent, and  Arline  de  Velesme  was  a  free  woman 
before  she  knew  of  her  lover's  safety. 

As  I  write,  they  are  journeying  in  all  hope 
to  claim  a  welcome  at  your  hands.  They 
urged  me  to  accompany  them,  as  I  could  read- 
ily have  procured  a  third  passport,  but  I  am 
old  enough  to  dread  change  more  than  danger. 


M.    GUILLOUX    TO    THE    DUKE 

Besides,  "  J'ai  du  bon  tabac  dans  ma  tabatiere," 
and  while  it  lasts  I  will  quietly  await  the 
future,  ever  with  strong  hope  that  we  have 
seen  the  worst,  and  that  the  day  is  coining  of 
which  we  so  often  spoke  in  '92.  And  until  it 
dawns 

I  am,  my  lord, 
Your  ever-admiring  friend  and  servant, 

GuiLLOUX. 


CANADIAN    STORIES    OLD 
AND    NEW 


LE   COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

LE  COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

THE   VETERAN 

UNE  SCEUR 

MON   ROCHER 

THE  INDISCRETION  OF  GROSSE   BOULE 


LE    COUKEUK-DE-BOIS 


LE    COUREUE-DE-BOIS 

THE  guard -house  at  the  Porte  du  Port 
of  the  old  town  of  Montreal  was  com- 
paratively empty  that  cool  May  even- 
ing of  1701.  There  had  been  a  week  of  al- 
most stifling  heat,  and  every  one  was  exhausted 
by  the  sudden  change  from  the  temperature  of 
winter  into  that  of  midsummer.  Most  of  the 
men  had  turned  in  early,  glad  of  the  prospect 
of  a  refreshing  night's  rest.  In  the  guard- 
room a  couple  of  non-commissioned  officers 
were  chatting  and  smoking,  three  or  four  sol- 
diers were  playing  passe-dix  on  a  long  bench 
which  served  as  a  table;  the  officer  in  com- 
mand was  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  empty 
Place  du  Marche  with  his  friend  Jacques  Bi- 
zard,  the  Town  Major,  and  the  sentry  yawned 
sleepily  in  the  refreshing  coolness  as  he  slowly 
paced  up  and  down  before  the  gate. 

From  the  windows  of  the  wakeful  Seminaire 

lOo 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

opposite  a  few  lights  twinkled,  but  the  town 
itself  was  as  dark  and  as  silent  as  the  grave. 

Outside  the  wall,  beyond  the  "  Little  Eiver," 
the  new  mansion  of  Monsieur  Louis  Hector  de 
Calliere,  Chevalier  of  the  Order  of  St.  Louis 
and  Governor  of  Canada,  loomed  up  imposing- 
ly with  its  heavy  bastions.  Before  the  main 
entrance  a  sentry  paced  up  and  down,  for  the 
Governor  had  come  up  from  Quebec  to  spend 
a  few  days  with  his  friend  Francois  DoUier  de 
Casson,  the  Cure  of  Montreal. 

Within  the  new  dining-room  the  two  friends 
sat  in  earnest  converse.  The  Governor,  gray- 
haired,  worn  with  years  and  service,  rested 
with  his  gouty  leg  pillowed  on  a  chair,  talking 
as  cheerfully  as  a  man  might  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. There  was  at  times  a  strong  sym- 
pathy in  his  voice  and  an  affectionate  light  in 
his  eye  as  he  marked  with  regret  the  failing 
of  that  herculean  stren^jth  which  had  so  lonsf 
distinguished  Dollier  de  Casson. 

Both  men  were  evidently  nearing  the  end 
of  their  careers,  and  both  had  much  in  com- 
mon. They  were  equal  in  birth;  in  youth 
their  profession  was  the  same — for  the  priest 
had  ridden  far  on  the  highway  to  fame  under 
lOG 


LE    COUREUR-DE.BOIS 

the  great  Turenne  before  he  had  donned  the 
cassock ;  and  for  years  the  object  of  their  com- 
mon labour  and  devotion  had  been  the  success 
of  the  struggling  colony. 

The  windows  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room 
giving  on  the  river  were  wide  open  and  the 
night  wind  swept  pleasantly  in.  Suddenly  a 
shrill,  high-pitched  cry,  broken  into  sharp, 
short  jerks,  burst  upon  them  from  the  outer 
darkness. 

The  Cure  started  to  his  feet,  while  the  Gov- 
ernor sat  bolt-upright  in  amazement.  "  Mor- 
dieu  !  Les  Iroquois !"  he  exclaimed  ;  for  the 
quick  jerk  of  the  Iroquois  war-whoop  once 
heard  can  never  be  forgotten. 

The  challenge  of  the  sentries  both  at  the 
Governor's  and  at  the  town  o-ate  rang  out 
simultaneously  as  the  priest  hastened  to  the 
window.  For  answer,  the  same  sharp,  evil 
cry  arose  from  the  blackness  of  the  river,  and 
without  further  hesitation  the  sentry  before 
the  Governor's  levelled  his  piece  and  fired  in 
the  direction  whence  it  came.  At  the  gate 
quick  command  was  followed  by  instantane- 
ous commotion  as  the  whole  guard  turned 
out    and    lights   Hashed   across   the   square; 

107 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

when  from  the  river  came  a  wild  chorus  of 
shouts  and  laughter  and  jeering  cries  of  mock 
reproach  and  welcome,  as  a  large  canoe  was 
faintly  seen  to  sweep  round  the  Point  and  up 
to  the  beach  opposite  the  Porte  du  Port. 

"The  devil  takes  care  of  his  own!  It  is 
that  vaurien  Dubosq  back  again,"  reported 
the  Cure  from  his  post  at  the  window. 

From  the  canoe  sprang  six  men,  followed 
by  two  women,  who  made  their  way  up  to 
the  gate,  but  to  their  surprise  it  was  still  fast 
closed,  and  remained  so  in  spite  of  their  clam- 
ourous demands  for  entrance.  As  they  paused 
for  a  moment  for  some  response,  they  heard 
within  the  commands  of  the  officer  and  the 
tramp  of  retreating  footsteps  as  the  guard  was 
dismissed  and  returned  to  quarters.  Where- 
upon one  of  their  number  drew  a  short  axe 
from  his  belt  and  began  to  batter  on  the  stout 
oaken  panel.  His  performance  was  cut  short 
by  a  commanding  voice  overhead  : 

"  Here,  below  there  !  Rest  where  you  have 
lit,  ye  thieves,  until  morning.  If  I  open,  you 
shall  all  go  under  lock  and  key,  and  if  one  of 
you  dare  so  much  as  lay  a  hand  on  that  gate 
again  or  speak  above  his  breath  I'll  open  fire  !" 
108 


LE    COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

There  was  no  mistaking  that  voice ;  each 
one  of  the  riotous  crew  sullenly  cursed  the  un- 
lucky chance  by  which  the  Town  Major  hap- 
pened to  be  at  the  gate  to  spoil  their  trium- 
phant entry  ;  but  they  knew  he  was  quite  ca- 
pable of  carrying  out  his  threats,  and  retired 
in  silence,  consigning  him  to  everlasting  tort- 
ures for  a  "maudit  suisse,"  as  he  was.  After 
watching  them  until  they  disappeared  in  the 
darkness  the  corpulent  Major  withdrew  to  re- 
join his  companion,  laughing  and  pleased  at 
this  tribute  to  his  authority. 

Meanwhile  there  was  angry  discussion  and 
hot  reproach  bandied  back  and  forth  be- 
tween the  discomfited  and  mortified  arrivals  ; 
at  length  he  who  had  plied  his  axe  to  such 
disappointing  effect  said  in  a  low  tone  of  sav- 
age authority  :  "  Hold  your  tongues,  fools ! 
Get  that  canoe  and  set  me  across  at  the  Point, 
and  we'll  see  if  the  Governor  will  refuse  to  re- 
ceive a  man  who  returns  as  I  do !"  As  he 
awaited  the  fulfilment  of  his  orders  he  turned 
towards  the  gate,  and,  patting  his  axe  with  an 
angry  gesture,  growled  slowly  :  "  You  pack  of 
bounds !  "Would  3'ou  have  me  come  to  your 
beggarly  town  on  my  hands  and  knees  because 
109 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

I  am  without  a  load  of  furs  behind  me? 
You'll  have  another  song  to  sing  by  the  morn- 
ing." 

A  few  strokes  were  sufficient  to  reach  the 
farther  side,  where  their  leader,  followed  by 
the  two  women,  scrambled  up  the  steep  bank. 
He  answered  the  challenge  of  the  sentry  who 
had  advanced  from  his  post  before  the  main 
door  of  the  chateau,  and  civilly  demanded  per- 
mission to  see  the  Governor. 

However  lightly  the  authorities  might  hold 
him,  he  was  well  known  and  highly  admired 
by  the  soldiery,  most  of  whom  looked  with 
longing  towards  the  freedom  of  his  roving 
life  ;  so  he  and  his  two  companions  were  read- 
ily admitted  into  the  entrance-hall  and  bidden 
await  the  Governor's  pleasure. 

Under  the  light  of  the  smoking  oil-lamp  he 
stood,  the  ideal  half-breed  Coureur-de-bois. 
He  was  rather  undersized,  but  his  lithe,  grace- 
ful figure  was  perfect  in  its  proportions,  and 
his  olive  face  strikingly  handsome,  with  its 
thin,  regular  features  framed  by  his  jet-black 
hair,  which  fell  in  two  long  braids  on  each 
breast.  He  was  dressed  in  complete  buck- 
skin, and,  notwithstanding  the  season,  his 
110 


LE    COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

blanket,  which  hung  over  his  left  shoulder, 
was  wound  closely  round  his  waist  in  approved 
Indian  fashion. 

The  two  women  were  squaws,  manifestly 
Iroquois  in  feature  and  dress ;  one  middle- 
aged  and  ordinary  enough,  but  the  other  was 
a  girl  of  not  more  than  fifteen,  with  the  soft 
eyes  and  fawn  -  like  timidity  of  face  which 
constitute  the  charm  of  Indian  beauty. 

The  Governor  was  annoyed  at  the  bravado 
of  the  intruders'  approach,  but  amused  at  the 
predicament  into  which  they  had  fallen,  and 
after  a  few  words  with  the  Cure  ordered  the 
trio  to  be  admitted. 

As  the  Coureur-de-bois  entered,  followed  by 
the  two  squaws,  the  Governor  eyed  him  with 
no  friendly  glance,  for  he  represented  the 
worst  type  of  that  lawless  class  which  had 
outgrown  its  first  usefulness,  and  had  now 
developed  into  the  most  disturbing  element 
in  the  internal  government  of  the  colony. 

The  Coureur-de-bois  advanced  into  the  room 
with  a  natural  dignity  and  assumed  deference 
of  manner,  for  he  fully  realized  the  delicacy 
of  his  position  ;  and,  after  bowing  low  before 
the  Governor,  turned  towards  the  Cure,  to 
111 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    xVND    NEW 

whom  he  extended  his  hand  with  easy  assur- 
ance. 

"All  in  good  time,  Master  Dubosq,"  said 
Dollier,  dryl}^,  waving  aside  the  proffered 
greeting.  "  Let  us  first  hear  what  you  have 
to  say  to  his  Excellency." 

Dubosq  smiled  as  his  name  was  mentioned, 
dropped  his  hand  palm  upward  on  the  table, 
and  bending  forward  said,  with  scarcely  hidden 
insolence :  "  Is  he  necessary  ?"  indicating  the 
soldier  standing  armed  and  motionless  at  the 
door. 

The  Governor  frowned  impatiently,  but 
signed  to  the  soldier,  who  withdrew.  Dubosq 
on  his  part  turned  to  the  squaws,  who  at  his 
bidding  backed  over  to  the  wall,  where,  crouch- 
ing on  the  floor,  they  remained  immovable 
throughout  the  interview,  silently  following 
every  gesture  and  expression  of  the  actors  with 
their  tireless  eyes. 

"  Now  then,"  said  the  Governor,  impatient- 
ly, "  no  lies  and  no  boasting,  more  than  you 
can  help!  I  am  sick  of  you  and  all  your 
tribe  !  What  new  deviltry  have  you  been 
up  to,  that  you  must  needs  carry  your  impu- 
dence into  my  presence  at  this  hour  ?     I  care 

113 


LE    COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

nothing  about  your  idiocy  before  the  gate ; 
you  shall  answer  to  the  Major  for  that  to- 
morrow !     Xow  then,  begin!" 

An  angry  blash  burned  redly  under  Du- 
bosq's  dusky  skin,  but  his  low  voice,  with 
its  trace  of  Indian  sweetness,  betrayed  no  re- 
sentment as  he  spoke.  "  Yes,  mon  Gouverneur, 
I  have  something  to  tell,  and  something  to 
show,  or  I  would  not  have  disturbed  you  and 
Monsieur  le  Cure  at  this  hour. 

"  It  is  not  two  weeks  since  I  left .  with 
La  Taupine  to  trade;  and  my  conge  was  in 
proper  order,"  he  added,  quickly.  "  We  had 
fine  weatlier,  two  good  canoes,  and  four  men ; 
we  had  attended  to  all  our  duties,  as  you 
know,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  glancing  at  the  priest, 
who,  however,  gave  no  sign  of  acknowledg- 
ment to  this  adroit  feeling  for  support.  "  We 
owed  no  man  anything  but  our  regular  ac- 
counts ;  so  nothing  could  promise  better. 

"  But  see  how  things  fall  out !  Xo  sooner 
had  we  entered  Les  Mille  lies  than  we  heard 
La  Mouche  was  in  camp  at  a  place  w^e  knew 
of.  Good !  I  was  not  too  well ;  so  La  Tau- 
pine, taking  all  the  men,  set  off  in  the  big 
canoe,  and  I  was  left  with  the  smaller  and 
H  113 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

most  of  the  goods  to  await  their  return  until 
evening. 

"To  kill  time  I  unloaded  the  canoe,  lifted  it 
up  under  the  bushes,  and  piled  the  stuff  be- 
side it.  Then  I  set  to  work  to  wait,  and, 
with  nothing  to  do  and  no  one  to  talk  to, 
waiting  is  the  devil.  So  during  the  morn- 
ing, somehow,  I  fell  asleep,  and  I  slept  un- 
til I  was  awakened  by  a  fly  tickling  my 
nose." 

"  Get  on  with  your  storj^,  fellow  !"  said  the 
Governor,  sharply. 

"  Pardon  me,  raon  Gouverneur,  but  that  fly 
has  much  to  do  with  my  storj^-,  and  I  can  only 
tell  it  ni}^  own  way.  I  shook  my  head,  but 
the  fly  returned.  I  tried  to  hit  it,  but  hit  my 
nose  instead,  and,  half  asleep,  I  started  up 
and  began :  '  Ah  !  mon — '  but  the  fly  w\as 
gone,  and,  instead,  there  sat  an  Iroquois  with 
a  twig  in  his  hand,  and  seven  other  devils  like 
himself,  in  full  war  paint,  squatting  close  about 
with  a  grin  on  every  face. 

"There  I  was!  This  was  the  end  of  our 
beautiful  journey  for  which  we  had  paid  so 
many  masses !  The  canoe  w^as  gone,  every 
Indian  had  a  pile  of  goods  on  the  ground  be- 

114 


LE    COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

fore  him,  and  I  Avithoiit  so  much  as  a  musk-rat 
skin  to  show  for  it  all. 

"'Well,  my  children,'  I  said,  'you  have 
only  caught  me  asleep,  so  don't  boast  too 
loudly.  If  you  had  been  men  you  would  have 
wakened  me.  Any  squaw  could  have  done  as 
much';  but  no  one  answered  me  a  word.  At 
last  I  said,  '  Now,  if  you  wish  to  move,  I  am 
ready,'  and  so  we  started. 

"  Such  a  march  !  AYe  went  through  the  bush 
at  a  half  run,  only  stopping  once  that  evening 
when  we  reached  their  camp,  and  there  picked 
up  these  two  squaws;  but  half  an  hour  later 
we  were  astir  attain.  All  that  night  we  march- 
ed  until  daylight  without  halt,  and  it  was  the 
next  afternoon  before  they  dared  make  a  reg- 
ular camp.  They  knew  La  Taupine  was  with 
me,  and  that  they  were  not  safe  within  any 
reasonable  distance. 

"No  doubt  we  would  have  moved  on  the 
next  day  as  well,  only  one  of  the  Iroquois  in- 
sisted he  had  carried  his  plunder  far  enough, 
and  now  would  taste  it."  Dubosq  caught  the 
Governor's  angry  start  at  this  admission  of 
his  carrying  the  forbidden  spirits,  but,  like  the 
fly  on  his  nose,  it  was  too  important  a  point 

115 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

to  be  passed  over,  and  he  continued  with  a 
well-assumed  innocence  :  "  So  they  tapped  one 
of  the  kegs,  and  when  I  awoke  — for  I  was 
so  done  out  that  I  had  slept  like  the  dead 
as  soon  as  I  could  throw  myself  down — they 
were  all  pretty  reasonably  drunk,  and  they 
had  begun  on  a  second. 

"  We  were  all  friends  together  now  ;  they 
boasted  of  how  they  would  be  received  in  their 
bourgade  when  they  walked  in  with  Dubosq — 
Dubosq-le-Coureur — tied  between  two  squaws ; 
and  they  laughed,  those  painted  devils,  and 
struck  me  on  the  back,  and  I  laughed  with 
them.  Why  not?  Were  we  not  all  friends 
together?  They  said  my  standing  quarrel 
with  their  people  was  an  old  affair,  something 
that  had  passed,  and  I  let  them  say  on.  So  we 
drank,  but  all  the  time  I  was  keeping  my  head 
clear  by  planning  how  I  would  take  that  same 
quarrel  up  before  long. 

"  A  third  keg  was  opened,  and  then  a  fourth; 
which  was  sheer  waste,  for  before  it  was 
touched,  and  long  before  the  moon  was  an 
hour  up,  the  two  squaws  and  I  were  the  only 
ones  sober  in  the  camp. 

"They  had  tried  to  fasten  me  in  their  usual 
116 


LE    COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

fashion,  but  only  one  arm  was  really  tied  to 
the  sapling,  and  the  Indian  on  my  right  was  so 
drunk  that,  as  soon  as  I  determined  upon  ray 
plan,  I  drew  my  arm  with  the  unfastened  cords 
from  under  him,  and  with  his  own  knife  cut 
myself  free.  I  was  sure  of  him,  but  was  not 
quite  so  certain  of  the  one  on  my  left. 

"  The  two  squaws  were  asleep,  as  far  as  I 
could  tell ;  but  I  dared  not  make  a  noise,  for 
fear  they  should  scream  out  or  escape ;  so  I 
raised  m3'self  slowly  on  my  elbow,  and,  after 
just  touching  my  Indian  over  the  body  with 
the  tips  of  my  fingers  to  make  sure  of  how  he 
was  lying,  I  struck  him  with  all  my  strength, 
and  at  the  same  time  threw  myself  across  his 
body,  covering  his  mouth  and  nose  with  my 
hand.  I  might  have  spared  myself  the  trouble, 
for  m}^  knife  had  found  its  way  to  the  right 
place,  and  he  onl}'^  drew  himself  up  together  and 
trembled  a  little,  and  then  lay  quite  still. 

"  I  raised  my  head,  and  listened  with  both 
ears.  Nothing  moved  but  the  wind  in  the 
trees.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  moving- 
of  the  leaves  and  the  snoring  of  the  drunken 
Indians.  I  sat  up,  took  my  cords,  and,  tying 
them  together,  crept  softly  over  towards  the 
117 


IN  OLD  francp:  and  new 

two  squaws,  and  before  they  were  Avell  awake 
they  were  so  tied  tliat  I  was  safe  from  any 
move  on  their  part,  and  I  easily  showed  them 
it  would  not  be  well  to  make  a  noise.  Now 
I  had  only  to  finish  my  work. 

"  I  walked  back  to  my  first  man,  and  with 
his  own  casse-tete  I  sent  him,  and  after  him  his 
six  fellow-thieves,  one  after  another,  down  to 
hell,  in  such  quick  following  that  they  were 
treading  on  each  other's  heels. 

"  In  three  days  I  was  back  at  the  river  again, 
for  I  had  had  all  the  trading  I  wanted  this 
journej'' ;  but  I  have  not  come  empty-handed." 

Here  the  vanity  of  the  half-breed  could  not 
be  controlled,  the  Indian  blood  asserting  itself. 
He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  his 
voice  swelled  into  a  triumphant  boast  as  he  re- 
peated :  "  JSTo,  I  have  not  come  empty-handed ! 
I  have  brought  no  furs,  I  have  come  back  in  a 
strange  canoe !  I  have  brought  back  no  goods, 
nor  have  I  a  pound  of  beaver  to  show  for  them  \ 
I  will  not  trade  on  the  Place  du  Marche  to- 
morrow, but  there  is  not  a  proper  man  in  Mon- 
treal who  would  not  give  ten  years  of  his  life 
for  my  butin!  I  travel  light,  but  I  carry  the 
lives  of  eight  men  !  There !" 
118 


LE    COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

At  the  word  he  threw  back  his  blanket,  and 
slipping  a  belt  from  his  waist  hurled  on  the 
table  before  the  two  gentlemen  eight  Iroquois 
scalps,  with  their  long  locks  twisted  and  plait- 
ed with  coloured  porcupine  and  beads  in  the 
hio"hest  refinement  of  savage  art.  Thev  both 
started  involuntarily.  Dubosq  stood  with  his 
arms  crossed  on  his  heaving  chest  and  his  gaze 
fixed  on  the  Governor's  face,  while  the  eyes 
of  the  two  squaws  sparkled  and  danced  in  ad- 
miration of  the  successful  warrior. 

The  Governor,  with  an  exclamation  of  dis- 
gust, pushed  the  belt  with  its  horrible  trophies 
from  him,  and  he  and  the  Cure  looked  sternly 
into  each  others  eyes  before  he  spoke  : 

"  Take  up  your  devil's  necklace,  you  scoun- 
drel! The  law  allows  you  a  reward;  but,  had 
I  my  way,  it  would  take  a  different  shape.  It 
is  to  you,  and  such  as  you,  we  owe  the  stain 
that  is  gathering  on  our  name.  You  are 
worse  than  the  savages  whom  you  disgrace 
by  your  presence ;  and,  if  you  come  before  us 
for  praise,  you  have  brought  your  suit  to  the 
wrong  court.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you! 
To-morrow  you  may  bring  your  tale  before 
the  Governor  of  the  town,  and  if  I  have  any 
119 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

influGnce  with  him,  be  assured  you  shall  meet 
Avith  your  full  reward." 

Dubosq  calmly  replaced  his  belt  and  gather- 
ed his  blanket  about  him ;  but  the  angry  flush 
on  his  cheeks  burned  still  redder  as  he  signed 
to  the  two  squaws,  who  arose  and  stood  in 
their  places. 

"We  will  go?"  he  inquired,  softl}^ 

"  Non,  raordieu  !  You  shall  not  go  !"  thun- 
dered the  Governor,  striking  his  stick  fiercely 
on  the  table. 

At  his  signal  the  doors  swung  open,  and  a 
sergeant  with  four  men  entered. 

"  Here !  take  this  fellow  and  keep  him  and 
the  women  safe  till  morning.  See  they  are 
comfortable,  though,  and  have  enough  to  eat." 

The  sergeant  saluted,  and  crossed  over  to 
Dubosq,  who,  bowing  quietly  to  the  Governor 
and  the  priest,  passed  out  of  the  room,  fol- 
lowed by  the  squaws  and  the  soldiers. 

In  the  early  morning  there  was  commotion 
in  the  court-yard  of  the  Governor's  residence, 
there  was  much  running  to  and  fro,  and  indig- 
nant reproach  and  answer. 

One  thing  alone  was  clear.  Dubosq  had 
120 


LE    COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

escaped  in  some  mysterious  manner  in  spite  of 
his  guards,  for  the  elder  squaw  was  the  only 
occupant  of  the  out-house  in  which  they  had 
been  confined  overnight. 

Later  on,  a  piece  of  coarse  paper  was  dis- 
covered fastened  high  ou  the  main  door  of 
the  Chateau,  on  whicli  was  scrawled  in  red 
chalk : 

:^TIENNE  DUBOSQ,  SA  MARQUE, 

and  in  the  centre  was  one  of  the  ghastl}^  tro- 
phies, an  Iroquois  scalp,  pinned  fast  by  the 
blade  of  his  hunting-knife. 


LE    COUREUE-DE-NEIGES 


LE   COUREUR-DE-Is[EIGES 

"SuHcta  Maria,  speed  us! 
The  sun  is  falling  low. 
Before  us  lies  the  valley 

Of  the  Walker  of  the  Snow." 

—Charles  D.  Shanlt. 

BENEDICITE,"  prayed  the  child,  with 
uplifted  hands;  "Dorainus,"  began  the 
compan}^  round  the  table,  in  chorus ; 
and  the  child  lisped  on  alone :  "  nos  et  ea  quae 
suraus  sumpturi  benedicat  dextera  Christi.  In 
nomine  Patris,  et  Filii,  et  Spiritus  Sancti." 
"  Amen,"  hastily  responded  the  compan}^,  and 
with  the  word  burst  forth  the  clatter  and  dis- 
turbance of  an  ill -conducted  family  dinner  in 
a  Canadian  household  of  two  hundred  years 
ago. 

The  father  and  mother  had  bareh'  helped 
themselves  before  half  a  dozen  spoons  met  and 
rattled  against  the  sides  of  the  large  earthen- 

125 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

ware  bowl  in  a  struggle  to  transfer  the  choicer 
morsels  to  the  plates  crowded  close  about  its 
generous  circumference.  The  clamorous  con- 
testants were  a  lot  of  half -grown  bo3^s  and 
girls,  ranging  from  Henri,  an  unlicked  cub  of 
eighteen,  down  to  the  child  of  six  who  had 
just  repeated  tlie  familiar  grace. 

A  glance  at  the  father,  who,  with  an  open 
book  propped  against  his  silver  cup,  sat  quiet- 
1}^  reading,  unmindful  of  the  noise  and  brawl- 
ing, assured  one  that  it  was  a  gentleman's 
household;  but  the  rough,  uneven  floor,  the 
bare  walls,  the  rude  benches  down  each  side 
of  the  uncovered  table,  told  of  its  careless  pov- 
erty. Of  the  children,  not  one  was  fittingly- 
dressed,  nor,  for  the  matter  of  that,  properly 
clean  ;  the  girls  were  apparently  without  ordi- 
nary vanity,  and  the  boys  without  a  saving 
pride. 

The  children  ate  off  pewter,  with  heavy  iron 
spoons  and  an  insufficient  number  of  knives 
between  them ;  forks  they  had  none,  so,  like 
their  social  inferiors,  they  helped  themselves 
with  their  fingers;  but  Charles-Marie- Antoine 
Lanouillier,  Seigneur  de  Bois-Feuillant,  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  was  served  on  silver,  as  was 
126 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

his  wife,  Denise,  the  pale-faced,  small-featured 
lady  in  the  faded  green  gown  who  faced  him 
at  its  other  end. 

M.  de  Bois-Feuillant,  Chevalier  of  the  Mili- 
tar\'-  Order  of  St.  Louis,  and  f  ormerl}^  a  captain 
in  the  Carignan-Salieres  regiment,  had  done  a 
man's  fair  share  of  campaigning,  both  against 
the  Turk  in  Europe  and  the  Indian  in  Xew 
France,  and,  for  reward,  was  granted  some 
thousands  of  acres  on  the  banks  of  the  Kiche- 
lieu  en  fief  et  seigneurie,  with  the  imposing 
privileges  of  haute,  moyenne,  et  basse  justice. 
His  seigneurie,  however,  was  at  such  perilous 
distance  from  the  protecting  forts  of  Chambly 
and  St.  Jean  that  censitaires  were  slow  in  pre- 
senting themselves,  and  M.  de  Bois-Feuillant, 
Avithout  adequate  means  for  the  cultivation  of 
his  estate,  was  fast  drifting  into  hopeless  pov- 
erty. He  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
make  any  successful  effort  to  retrieve  his  fort- 
unes. While  a  soldier  he  had  fulfilled  his  duties 
with  a  punctilious  exactitude,  more  in  keeping 
-with  the  spirit  of  a  knight  of  the  days  of  chiv- 
alry than  of  an  infantry  officer  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  As  he  was  of  good  family, 
his  connections  at  court  saw  to  his  advance- 
127 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

ment,  and  his  present  position  as  seigneur  of 
these  unbroken  acres  had  come  to  him  in  like 
manner,  Avithout  effort  on  his  part.  He  had 
an  unusual  liking  for  book-learning,  and  so 
long  as  he  could  pore  over  his  Tacitus  or 
Montaigne,  and  eat  decently  off  his  silver,  he 
took  but  little  notice  of  what  went  on  about 
him.  He  considered  he  had  made  sufficient  sac- 
rifice for  his  family  when  he  wrote  to  a  pow- 
erful relative  soliciting  his  favour  on  behalf 
of  his  eldest  son,  who  was  now  in  France  as 
squire  to  the  Baron  de  la  Roche- Bernard,  learn- 
ing the  art  of  war,  after  the  unvarying  tradi- 
tion of  the  family. 

Madame  de  Bois-Feuillant,  like  many  anoth- 
er gentlewoman  of  her  day,  had  been  bitterly 
disheartened  by  the  unending  and  apparently 
hopeless  struggle  which  life  in  the  half-savage 
colony  demanded.  So  long  as  her  husband 
had  remained  in  the  array  and  she  might 
cherish  the  hope  of  a  return  to  France,  she 
lived  her  life  as  bravely  as  her  fellow-exiles ; 
but  when  he  accepted  his  grant  from  the  King, 
and  settled  down  contentedly  to  a  life  of  coarse 
poverty  and  careless  indifference,  she  wearied 
of  any  attempt  to  govern  the  household  in  his 
128 


LE    COUREUK-DE-NEIGES 

stead,  and  rapidly  aged  into  a  hardened,  cynical 
woman,  looking  on  tlie  mean  surroundings  of 
her  daily  life  Avith  the  sometimes  amused,  some- 
times contemptuous  eye  of  an  outsider. 

The  children  had  grown  up  uncared  for, 
uneducated,  and  unrestrained;  they  wandered 
where  they  would,  without  a  thought  for  any 
other  than  themselves,  and  the  natural  devel- 
opment followed. 

A  loud  barking  without,  interrupted  and  at 
length  silenced  by  a  string  of  vigorous  im- 
precations, quieted  the  noisy  crowd  about  the 
table  for  a  moment. 

"There's  Gui !"  called  out  Angelique.  "  You'd 
better  get  out  of  his  place  before  he  asks  you, 
monsieur  Henri." 

But  Henri  paid  no  attention  to  the  taunting 
warning  except  to  forestall  Gui's  probable 
choice  by  securing  the  best  portion  of  fowl 
left  on  the  platter,  transferring  it  to  his  own 
plate  with  his  unwiped  fingers. 

Gui  entered — a  tall,  handsome,  dark-featured 
youth  of  twenty,  dressed  in  the  height  of 
savage  finery.  He  wore  neatly  made  mocca- 
sins, his  leggings  were  new  and  tight-fitting, 

I  129 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

and  his  white  buckskin  shirt,  worn  outside  his 
leggings,  and  secured  round  his  waist  with  a 
worked  porcupine  belt,  was  ornamented  down 
the  arms  and  breast  with  a  short  fringe,  eacli 
point  of  which  was  tipped  with  red  and  yellow 
beads. 

His  father  never  raised  his  head  from  his 
book,  but  the  others  looked  towards  him  ex- 
pectantly. 

Gui  glanced  at  his  usual  seat ;  then,  placing 
his  gun  in  the  corner,  strode  over  to  the  table 
and  stood  behind  the  exasperating  Henri.  A 
look  at  the  others  sufficed :  in  an  instant  he 
had  the  usurper  by  the  collar  and  about  the 
waist,  and  in  spite  of  a  frantic  clutch  at  every- 
thing within  reach,  jerked  him  over  the  low- 
bench,  and  sent  him  sprawling  on  the  floor, 

A  shout  of  jeering  laughter  greeted  the  dis- 
comfited Henri  as  he  rose,  and,  with  an  angry 
snarl,  hurled  his  pewter  plate  with  all  his  force 
at  his  elder  brother,  who  avoided  it  with  ease 
and  straddled  the  captured  place  in  convenient 
position  for  further  defence.  But  no  attack 
was  made,  whereupon  Gui,  ordering  Angelique 
to  pick  up  the  battered  plate  and  wipe  it,  be- 
gan his  dinner  with  what  remained  on  tlie 
130 


LE    COUREUR-DE-XEIGES 

large  platter,  in  the  same  uncouth  manner  as 
the  others. 

When  his  hunger  was  satisfied  he  walked 
over  to  a  rude  placard,  or  cupboard,  let  into 
the  side  wall,  poured  out  a  mug  of  small-beer 
from  the  pitcher,  and  drank  in  silence,  staring 
moodily  at  his  mother  the  while. 

"  Do  you  see  anything,  mon  petit?''  she  chal- 
lenged, in  her  flute-like  voice. 

"Xothinff  worth  remarkinc:,"  he  retorted,  set- 
ting  down  his  mug. 

The  clatter  about  the  table  ceased  instant!}-, 
the  children  glanced  eagerly  from  mother  to 
brother,  while  M.  de  Bois-Feuillant,  roused  by 
the  sudden  silence,  exclaimed,  dreamily  :  "Eh! 
eh  !     What  did  you  sa}^  my  son  V 

"  Nothing,  my  father,  except  a  word  to 
madame,  my  mothei-,  to  express  my  regret  at 
leaving  so  pleasant  a  home.*' 

"  What !  Has  the  Yicomte  written  T'  asked 
M.  de  Bois-Feuillant,  with  sudden  interest. 

"  Ko,  I  go  where  I  need  no  protection  from 
Vicomte,  or  any  other  than  myself." 

"  Not  that  folly  of  the  woods,  my  son  ? 
Not  that  disreputable  life,  full  of  ignoble  dan- 
gers .  .  .  ?" 

131 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"  Oh,  ]io  is  a  bravo  runner!"  pipo<]  the  moth- 
er, mockingly. 

"Madame,  I  felicitate  you  on  the  taste  of 
your  compliment." 

"...  full  of  ignoble  dangers,"  continued  M. 
de  Bois-Feuillant,  unheeding,  "  and  a  degrada- 
tion to  any  gentleman  of  good  family  ?" 

"A  gentleman  of  good  family !"  laughed  Gui. 
"  A  gentleman  of  good  famih'^ !  Has  my  '  fam- 
ily '  ever  given  me  anything  more  than  life  ? 
Has  my  'family'  prevented  these" — indicating 
bis  brothers  and  sisters  with  scornful  sweep  of 
his  hand — "from  growing  up  into  good-for- 
nothing  savages?  I  was  a  fool  to  have  re- 
fused Dulhut's  offer  when  with  La  Taupine 
last  year,  but  now  I  make  no  more  mistakes. 
Here  everything  has  gone  to  the  devil  with- 
out, everything  is  going  to  the  devil  within, 
and  you  would  have  me  stay  in  it,  all  for- 
sooth that  I  am  '  a  gentleman  of  good  family,' 
No!  I  have  played  the  'gentleman'  for  the 
last  time,  and  now  I  turn  coureur.  Yes,  ma- 
dame" —  turning  on  his  mother  in  answer 
to  her  affected  surprise — "  yes,  madame,  cou- 
reur— coureur-de-bois,  if  you  will  have  it  at 
length." 

132 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

"  May  you  be  as  successful  in  your  new  role 
as  in  your  present !"  smiled  Madame. 

For  once  Gui  did  not  respond;  he  moved 
towards  his  g-un,  and  there  stood  for  a  moment 
as  if  expecting  some  word  from  his  father ; 
but  the  old  officer  fingered  nervously  at  his 
silver  cup,  so  unmistakabl}''  anxious  to  end  the 
scene,  that  Gui,  in  contemptuous  pity,  walked 
quietly  out  of  the  room,  his  mother's  tantaliz- 
ing laugh  ringing  after  him  in  mocking  fare- 
well. 

Henceforth  Gui  de  Bois-Feuillant  was  seen 
no  more  in  his  usual  haunts  about  the  seigneu- 
rie,  nor  yet  in  the  streets  of  Montreal,  nor  in 
the  taverns  of  Quebec. 

At  the  beginning  of  his  career  he  ran  the 
round  of  the  distant  posts  of  Michilimackinac,  of 
Kaministiquia,  of  La  Tourette  in  the  north,  and 
of  Crevecoeur  and  Prud'homme  in  the  south ; 
but  he  soon  wore  out  his  welcome  at  each  in 
turn,  for  his  overbearing,  savage  nature  scorn- 
fully leaped  the  easy  limits  of  decency  recog- 
nized by  the  unexacting  coureurs-de-bois.  His 
appearances  at  the  larger  forts  grew  rare,  and 
as  they  not  unfrequently  ended  in  more  or  less 

133 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

serious  quarrels,  he  was  there  looked  upon  with 
a  suspicion  and  distrust  that  but  served  as  ad- 
ditional fuel  to  his  vanity. 

lie  naturally  fell  in  with  the  most  lawless  of 
his  kind  ;  with  them  he  committed  flagrant 
offences  against  ordonnances  of  both  Governor 
and  Intendant,  and  before  long  was  a  pro- 
scribed and  outlawed  man,  with  a  price  set 
upon  his  head. 

Ilis  unquestioned  courage,  joined  to  his  un- 
usual strength,  had  won  him  universal  admira- 
tion from  the  Indians,  who  readily  proffered 
the  open  worship  his  overweening  vanity 
greedily  demanded,  and  he  was  nowhere  so 
thoroughly  satisfied  as  when  the  centre  of  a 
group  of  approving  savages. 

His  fame  spread  through  most  distant  tribes. 
He  was  renowned  among  the  Sioux  and  Dah- 
cotahs  of  the  plains,  the  Issati  of  the  upper 
Mississippi,  and  the  Natchez  of  the  south  as 
a  mighty  hunter  and  warrior,  a  runner  of  in- 
credible speed,  and  the  most  reckless  of  game- 
sters. 

No  foot  was  surer,  no  instinct  truer  in  the 
chase  than  his ;  no  great  funeral  feast  was  com- 
plete without  his  presence  to  lead  the  custom- 
134 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

ary  games  ;  cand  when  he  had  anything  to 
lose,  he  would  sit  night  after  night  in  the 
lodges,  risking  his  dearly  won  peltries  or  more 
dearly  prized  weapons  on  the  cast  of  the  col- 
oured bones,  or  the  combined  skill  and  chance 
of  the  jeu  de  paille. 

When  he  ceased  to  visit  the  French  posts,  it 
was  easy  to  throw  aside  what  little  remained 
of  the  restraints  of  civilization.  No  red-skinned 
pagan  with  whom  he  fraternized  was  more 
naturally  a  savage  than  this  son  of  a  French 
officer,  who  had  never  met  their  breed  save  at 
the  sword's  point. 

His  straight,  regular  features  were  burned 
into  as  dusky  a  colour  as  his  fellows,  his  dress 
was  theirs  in  ever}'-  particular  ;  like  them,  he 
painted  his  face  and  body,  and  oiled  and 
dressed  his  hair  in  long,  ornamental  braids. 
About  the  ever -moving  camp-fires  he  could 
boast  or  lie  as  bravely  of  real  or  imaginary 
exploits,  bandy  his  obscene  jests,  or  quarrel  as 
fiercely  as  any  savage  of  them  all. 

In  time  he  was  forgotten  by  his  own  race. 
He  had  disappeared  from  their   thinly  scat- 
tered ranks  into  the  darkness  of  the  surround- 
ing barbarism,  and  in  the  painted,  half-naked 
135 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

savage,  famed  among  his  fellow  -  savages  as 
Outagami,  the  Fox,  there  \vas  nothing  to  re- 
call the  turbulent  personality  once  known  to 
men  as  Charles-Xicolas-Gui  Lanouillier  de  Bois- 
Feuillant. 

Outagami  the  savage  ventured  where  Gui 
the  renegade  would  not  dare.  Outagami  had 
no  known  past  behind  him.  He  joined  in  and 
led  war-parties  against  Frenchmen,  Hollander, 
or  English  without  scruple  or  remorse.  He 
was  not  more  cruel  than  his  fellows — that  was 
impossible — but  to  their  cruelty  he  added  an 
intelligence  devilish  in  its  ingenuity. 

When  M.  de  la  Barre  moved,  with  all  his 
impotent  "pomp  and  circumstance  of  war," 
against  the  Iroquois,  only  to  end  in  the  humil- 
iating peace  of  La  Famine,  Outagami  was  ab- 
sent on  a  marauding  expedition  in  the  south, 
and  only  rejoined  his  tribe  when  they  returned 
flushed  with  insolent  victory.  In  wilful  de- 
fiance of  their  would  -  be  conquerors,  and  in 
flagrant  violation  of  the  despised  treat}'-,  they 
had  made  a  detour  on  their  return,  raided  an 
Outaouais  village,  and  carried  off  a  score  of 
prisoners.     ' 

136 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

Chafing  at  his  ill-fortune — for  he  would  have 
given  much  to  have  bearded  the  Governor  and 
his  following,  each  of  whom  he  looked  upon 
with  envenomed  hate  as  his  personal  enemy — 
Outagami  vented  his  displeasure  in  taunting 
his  comrades  and  underrating  their  exploit. 
Finding  this  course  unavailing,  he  began  an 
insolent  examination  of  the  prisoners,  demand- 
ing the  names  of  their  captors,  boasting  of  his 
own  achievements,  and  promising  tortures  to 
each  victim  in  turn. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  before  a  young  squaw 
in  pretended  indignation  and  amazement.  Who 
had  dared  to  interfere  with  his  property  ?  She 
belonged  to  him  ;  he  had  seen  her  once  in  a 
dream.  Then,  changing  his  tone  —  but  per- 
chance he  was  mistaken !  She  had  come  of 
her  own  free-will  to  meet  him,  or  some  brother 
had  guided  her  feet  to  his  side. 

The  girl  shrank  back,  alarmed  at  his  trucu- 
lent advances,  while  a  burst  of  laughter  greet- 
ed his  bravado.  It  was  quieted  for  a  moment, 
only  to  swell  into  a  roar  of  applause  as  a  brave 
stepped  forward  and  challenged  Outagami  to 
make  his  words  good. 

"  I  brought  her,  my  brother.  But  you  were 
137 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

far  away  with  tlio  setting  sun,  and  for  this 
reason  I  left  her  grandmother,  who  still  awaits 
your  coming." 

"  Is  her  grandmother  skilled  in  the  use  of 
herbs,  my  brother  ?" 

"Yes,  O  Outagarai!  and  she  is  even  now 
gathering  leaves  for  your  hurts." 

Again  the  challenger  ^von  the  applause  of 
the  crowd  by  his  anticipation  of  Outagami's 
gibe,  and,  without  more  ado,  both  men  threw 
off  leggings  and  blankets  and  faced  each  other. 

A  ring  was  instantly  formed.  The  com- 
batants  moved  warily  round,  seeking  an  op- 
portunity to  close,  taunting  each  other  the 
while  and  inciting  attack  by  feigned  advance 
or  retreat.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  circled 
until  at  last  they  touched,  and  then,  unable 
to  restrain  themselves,  they  sprang  upright 
and  grappled.  Backward  and  forward  they 
strained  and  twisted,  with  every  trick  and 
ruse  of  the  trained  w^restler,  while  the  crowd 
uttered  low  grunts  of  approval,  and  the  pris- 
oners stood  a -tiptoe  to  watch  the  struggle. 
No  human  strength  could  stand  such  a  strain 
for  any  time ;  muscle,  bone,  and  sinew  were 
tried   to  their  utmost,  when   Outagami,  in  a 

138 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

supreme  effort,  lifted  and  threw  his  antago- 
nist, limp  and  breathless,  amid  a  mighty  roar 
of  admiration  from  the  fickle  crowd.  Spent 
and  exhausted,  the  two  braves  rested  after 
their  bout,  while  ready  hands  brought  them 
water  and  chafed  their  throbbing  limbs. 

"  Brother,"  said  Outagami,  at  last,  "  if  you 
are  still  in  doubt,  there  are  six  little  bones  by 
which  we  may  decide." 

The  crowd  fell  in  with  his  humour,  and  the 
principal  warriors  moved  towards  the  lodge  of 
the  chief,  where  the  two  braves  seated  them- 
selves on  an  outspread  deer- skin,  each  with 
his  counters  of  grains  beside  him,  and  the 
round  cup  with  the  coloured  bones  in  the 
centre. 

Hour  after  hour  through  the  dusk  of  the 
evening  and  in  the  light  of  the  rekindled  fire 
they  threw  with  varj^ing  chances,  with  rapid 
passes  and  gestures,  with  wild  cries  and  heavy 
smitings  of  the  breast,  and  a  never-ceasing 
flow  of  ribaldry,  in  which  the  excited  crowd 
freely  joined,  until  fortune  again  sided  with 
Outagami. 

Twice  had  he  won  the  girl  fairly,  but  his 
vanity  could  be  satisfied  with  no  positive  vic- 
139 


IN    OLD    F II  A  N C  E    AND    NEW 

tory  while  a  further  triumph  lay  within  a  pos- 
sibility. 

Throwing  the  cup  and  bones  over  his  shoul- 
der, and  scattering  his  counters  among  the 
crowd  with  an  exultant  shout,  he  challenged 
his  opponent  to  another  trial— a  race  in  the 
dark. 

Out  into  the  chill  of  the  September  night 
trooped  the  warrioi's.  Women  and  children 
eagerly  piled  dr}'-  branches  on  the  fire  until  it 
leaped  and  flared  in  the  frosty  air.  Runners 
were  sent  out  to  the  points  to  be  passed  by  the 
contestants,  who  stood  stripped  and  ready  for 
the  signal  to  start. 

As  they  waited,  from  out  the  darkness  on 
the  left  came  the  call  of  the  man  at  the  last 
post,  answered  by  him  at  the  next,  fainter 
again  in  the  distance,  and  again  louder  and 
nearer  on  the  right. 

The  rivals  stood  swaying  at  the  mark,  and 
at  the  signal  from  the  chief  shot  forth.  In  an 
instant  both  were  lost  to  the  keenest  e3^e  which 
followed.  The  crowd  stood  in  an  eager  si- 
lence, every  body  bent  forward  and  every 
sense  strained  to  its  utmost  to  catch  some  in- 
dication of  the  invisible  runners. 
140 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

Then  "  U-u-u-u-ugb !''  rang  from  the  first  pick- 
et. Again  the  same  signal  came  fainter  and 
more  distant,  then  again,  and  again,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  the  crowd  broke  into  a  frantic 
roar  of  delight,  and  rapidly  fell  back  into  two 
o-reat  masses  as  Outaganii  flashed  from  out  the 
darkness,  and  in  the  delirium  of  his  triumph 
dashed  through  the  blazing  fire,  scattering 
brands  and  flame  in  his  mad  finish,  ere  his  op- 
ponent came  into  sight. 

It  was  a  superb  effort,  and  even  his  inor- 
dinate vanity  was  satisfied  with  the  enthusi- 
astic admiration  it  called  forth. 

He  had  won  the  prize  :  the  girl  belonged  to 
him  by  right  of  conquest,  as  undisputed  as  if 
he  had  carried  her  off  red-handed  in  the  mid- 
night massacre  of  her  tribe. 

He  laughed  to  scorn  the  command  of  the 
elders  that  he  should  marry  her  according  to 
their  custom.  He  marry?  He  had  never 
looked  twice  at  living  woman,  and  if  he  chose 
to  claim  her,  it  was  only  because  she  belonged 
to  him  as  actually  as  his  gun  or  his  hunting- 
knife.  She  was  his — not  his  wife,  not  his  mis- 
tress— but  his,  to  use  as  he  pleased,  to  kill  or 
141 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

let  live,  to  toil,  to  laugh,  to  sing,  or  to  weep  at 
his  pleasure  ;  and,  with  the  inexplicable  nature 
of  woman,  she  followed  as  he  led,  without  a 
murmur. 

She  followed  him  in  all  his  wanderings,  how- 
ever distant,  however  dangerous,  for  he  gave 
no  thought  to  her  safety  more  than  to  his  own. 
They  were  not  two  people — he  was  Outagami, 
and  she  belonged  to  him,  body  and  soul.  He 
gave  nothing  to  her ;  his  protection  was  simply 
the  terror  of  his  name. 

Years  brought  new  triumphs,  for  his  phe- 
nomenal ph3'sical  development  had  become  his 
passion,  towards  which  no  vice,  no  temptation, 
could  lure  him  even  into  a  momentary  forget- 
f ulness.  With  every  repeated  success  his  pride 
in  his  power  and  his  contempt  for  his  fellows 
swelled  beyond  all  bounds,  until  his  intoler- 
able arrogance  made  all  companionship  impos- 
sible. 

Farther  and  farther  he  wandered  with  his 
one  human  companion,  known  and  shunned  in 
every  lodge  from  the  head  of  the  Belle  Riviere 
to  the  utmost  limits  of  the  Missouri ;  never 
coming  into  any  camp  save  to  replenish  his 
store  of  powder  or  to  taste  once  more  the 
142 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

sweetness  of  acknowledged  masteiy  in  some 
fierce  contest  of  savage  strength  or  skill. 

But  his  fame  liad  grown  to  such  a  point  that 
he  could  rarely  find  a  brave  who  dared  to  face 
him.  It  was  whispered  that  his  strength  and 
endurance  were  something  more  than  human, 
and  a  sinister  reason  for  his  long  disappear- 
ances was  hinted  at  that  was  sufficient  to  hold 
back  all  but  the  most  reckless.  In  time  he 
came  to  believe  something  of  it  himself,  and 
the  moment  he  felt  that  his  success  was  as- 
sured b}''  some  external  power,  he  lost  his 
strong  incentive  towards  victory— it  was  no 
longer  his,  it  was  no  longer  personal.  Then 
with  the  belief  came  fear — fear  of  injury  to 
that  beautiful,  perfect  body  with  its  marvellous 
strength,  the  one  thing  he  worshipped — and 
once  this  asserted  itself,  it  became  all-power- 
ful. With  a  courage  born  of  his  fear — a  cour- 
age superior  to  all  shame  or  contempt  —  he 
henceforward  refused  to  lead  or  join  in  any 
war -party,  no  matter  how  powerful,  or  take 
up  any  private  quarrel,  no  matter  how  great 
the  provocation. 

Despised  or  hated  by  all  about  him,  he  wan- 
dered through  unknown  woods,  by  unknown 
143 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

waters,  liaunted  by  his  ever-present  fear  of 
accident,  in  ever-increasing  loneliness,  followed 
b}^  the  one  human  creature  whose  presence  he 
could  command. 

She  seldom  spoke  to  him  and  never  uttered 
his  name.  When  he  entered  any  camp,  the  old 
familiar  cry,  "  Outagami,"  never  heralded  his 
approach.  If  spoken  of  at  all,  it  was  as  Le 
Coureur.  He  had  lost  his  human  name,  and 
had  become  a  tJtin.g,  even  to  the  savage. 

But  a  day  came  when  the  passion  for  victory 
awoke  once  more  within  him.  News  Avas 
spread  of  a  wonderful  runner  who  had  arisen 
among  the  Outaouais- — a  runner  whose  name 
and  whose  exploits  were  on  all  lips,  as  were 
once  those  of  the  almost-forgotten  champion. 
While  in  the  Sioux  country  he  heard  from  a 
wandering  half-breed  of  the  renown  of  the  new 
hero,  who  might  be  found  with  his  tribe  on 
their  hunting-grounds  on  the  upper  Ottawa. 

The  old  fire  of  ambition  and  lust  of  praise, 
once  rekindled,  burned  with  renewed  lierce- 
ness,  and  he  would  brave  all  to  taste  acain 
the  long-ungathered  sweets  of  victorv. 

Kelying  on  his  unabated  strength  and  en- 
144 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

durance,  he  braved  the  ahnost  insurmountable 
hardships  of  a  winter  journey  through  tlie 
desolate  region  north  of  Lake  Superior,  not 
daring  to  approach  the  forts  or  risk  encounter 
with  certain  enemies  on  the  regular  routes  of 
travel.  He  battled  against  storm,  and  cold, 
and  hunger,  undaunted  and  unshaken,  but 
when,  he  reached  the  ice-bound  limits  of  the 
Ottawa,  the  woman  who  had  so  long  borne  her 
unmerited  burden  of  shame  and  ill-repute,  laid 
herself  down  exhausted,  and,  with  a  gleam  of 
hope,  saw  the  hour  of  her  deliverance  at  hand. 

He  commanded  and  threatened  her  in  vain. 
Then,  not  in  pity,  but  in  terror  lest  he  should 
be  left  alone  with  his  ever-present  fear,  he 
built  a  rude  wigwam,  cut  fir  branches  for 
a  bed,  gathered  a  store  of  wood,  and  for  a 
Avhole  morning  hunted,  and  returned  laden 
with  a  supply  of  food.  She  lay  without  a 
movement,  following  his  every  motion  with 
her  fever-lighted  eyes,  as  he  cooked  the  meat, 
laid  some  of  it  beside  her,  then  ate  of  it  him- 
self, and  stretched  his  wearied  body  by  the  fire, 
where  he  slept  to  the  shrill  piping  of  the  icy 
wind  through  the  openings  of  their  frail  shelter. 

Hour  after  hour  she  lay  there,  watching  the 

K  145 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

immovable  sleeper,  watching  the  gloom  gather 
closer  and  closer  round  the  dying  fire,  listen- 
ing to  the  piping  blast  sinking  into  a  moaning 
softness  or  gradually  swelling  into  a  roar,  as 
it  swept  down  with  its  scourge  of  icy  snow 
that  whipped  and  flogged  at  the  rattling  bark 
on  the  straining  poles. 

At  last  he  awoke  —  listened  for  a  moment 
to  the  rising  storm,  threw  fresh  wood  on  the 
smoking  fire,  and  taking  up  his  snow-shoes, 
examined  them  with  the  greatest  care. 

She  spoke  to  him,  but  he  only  glanced  at  her 
without  a  word.  When  he  had  examined  and 
tested  his  snow  -  shoes,  he  threw  off  his  scanty 
clothing,  and  Avarming  his  pot  of  coloured 
earths  at  the  fire,  began  to  paint  his  face  and 
body  according  to  his  \vont.  She  spoke  again, 
but  he  went  on  unheeding.  When  he  finished, 
he  dressed  with  care  and  deliberation,  and  tak- 
ing a  small  portion  of  food,  he  picked  up  his 
snow-shoes  and  bent  to  crawl  through  the  low 
entrance. 

Again  the  dying  woman  spoke,  but  this 
time  her  feeble  mutterings  ended  in  such  a 
cry  of  fierce  desperation  that  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  in  amazement. 

14G 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

What  had  happened  ? 

The  stolid,  expressionless  mask  he  had  so 
long  known  had  fallen,  and  in  its  place  started 
forth  a  face  distorted  in  a  storm  of  passionate 
hate ;  the  timid,  shifting  eyes  blazed  with  a 
stead}^  demoniacal  fire ;  the  mute,  slavish  lips 
now  poured  forth  a  fearless  torrent  of  re- 
proach and  execration. 

His  surprise  died  as  quickly  as  it  had  arisen, 
and,  with  his  devilish  skill,  he  stood  there  eying 
her  immovably  until  the  old  power  reasserted 
itself,  and  she  cowered  beneath  the  terror  of 
his  glance,  her  strident  scream  breaking  into 
a  low  wail  of  hopeless  weakness. 

But  even  as  he  triumphed,  the  crisis  re- 
turned, and  gathering  new  force,  the  sup- 
pressed hatred  of  her  life  burst  forth  in  all 
the  fierceness  of  savage  malediction. 

She  called  upon  every  power  of  evil  to 
curse  him  in  his  strength,  in  his  pride  of 
mastery,  in  his  hour  of  victory,  in  his 
hour  of  direst  need.  "  Go !"  she  screamed, 
with  a  shriek  of  frenzied  laughter,  high  above 
the  roar  of  the  storm.  "  Go !  Eun  swifter 
than  the  wind,  faster  than  the  day ;  run  until 
the  wind  dies  forever  and  the  day  comes  no 
147 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

more  —  but  before  you  my  curse  shall  ever 
wait.     Go !     Go !" 

And  with  fear  clinging  to  him  as  a  garment, 
he  turned  and  crawled  through  the  opening 
into  the  blackness  without. 

"With  the  awful  curse  ringing  in  his  ears,  he 
staggered  to  his  feet,  and  in  blind  desperation 
rushed  forward  in  the  teeth  of  the  driving 
storm,  heedless  of  his  course. 

The  familiar  struggle  against  the  tempest  at 
last  partially  recalled  him  to  his  senses.  With 
a  shudder,  he  paused  and  shook  himself  as 
if  to  throw  off  his  overwhelming  burden,  and 
turning  his  back  to  the  wind,  stood  crouching 
before  it  as  he  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts. 
But  he  could  think  of  nothing  save  her  impre- 
cation. It  rang  through  his  brain  with  a  ter- 
rible insistence  till  all  the  evil  of  his  nature 
awoke  in  fierce  revolt,  and  with  a  low  growl 
of  defiance,  he  stood  upright  and  retraced  his 
steps.  She  must  unsay  the  curse  she  had  laid 
upon  him,  or  he  would  strangle  her  with  his 
hands  as  she  lay. 

Pushing  aside  the  frozen  cloth  before  the 
entrance,  he  crawled  back  into  the  wigwam. 
148 


LE    COUREUR-DE-NEIGES 

The  fire  still  burned  brightly,  and  on  her  bed 
of  pine  the  figure  of  the  Avoman  lay  im- 
movable. 

With  hot  anger  surging  through  every  fibre 
and  contracting  every  muscle  into  murderous 
tension,  he  crawled  noiselessly  towards  the  out- 
stretched figure.  He  was  almost  beside  her 
now,  but  she  lay  unmindful  of  his  presence. 
He  raised  himself  on  the  points  of  his  fingers, 
ready  for  his  spring,  when  he  caught  a  fuller 
view  of  her  face,  and,  with  a  gasp  of  despair, 
he  saw  that  another  and  a  greater  change  had 
come. 

The  heincr  he  had  known  was  frone,  and  in 
her  place  was  Death  Eternal — Death  under  a 
frozen  mask  of  hate,  thrilling  him  with  terror 
as  he  read  the  undying  curse  written  in  its 
staring  eyes. 

There  he  knelt  as  immovable  as  the  Presence 
before  him,  with  no  thought  of  vengeance,  no 
effort  of  escape,  the  life  within  him  ebbing 
backward,  backward,  backward,  before  the  un- 
changeable hatred  of  the  dead. 

Suddenly  the  wigwam  strained  and  bent,  and 
then  was  torn  bodily  from  its  fastenings,  the 
blazing  fire  was  whirled  and  scattered  into  the 
149 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

white  emptiness  about,  and  with  a  scream  of 
torture  the  kneeling  figure  leaped  to  its  feet, 
and  was  swept  before  the  scourge  of  the  mid- 
night storm. 

Onward  it  fled  through  the  depths  of  the 
groaning  forest  amid  the  crash  of  frozen 
branches,  down  the  broad  course  of  the  sheeted 
river  shrieking  between  the  ice-bound  walls  of 
rock  in  the  narrows,  over  the  open  plain  to  the 
sleeping  town  where  the  bells  quivered  in  a 
long  moan  as  they  lifted  before  its  fury  and 
then  swung  back  with  one  harsh  clang,  at 
which  affrighted  sleepers  moaned,  or,  starting 
up,  crossed  themselves  in  the  darkness,  as  it 
swept  onward,  onward,  down  to  the  \ery  edge 
of  the  realm  of  Winter  and  of  Death.  But  to 
the  tortured  spirit  no  boundary  could  mean 
rest,  no  road  lead  to  a  journey's  end.  As  the 
signs  of  winter  lessened,  the  storm  but  made  a 
wider  circle  to  bear  the  lost  soul,  with  its  never- 
ceasing  wail  of  despair,  back  towards  the  end- 
less night  and  desolation  of  the  JS^orth. 

Men  have  looked  upon  that  midnight  horror, 
but  no  living  man  has  told  Avhat  his  eyes  have 
seen.     But  when  the  fierce  might  of  summer 
150 


LE    COUllEUK-DE-NEIGES 

has  rolled  back  the  shroud  of  winter  to  the 
unchangeable  limits  of  the  eternal  snow,  in  the 
depth  of  the  awakening  forest,  on  the  green 
breast  of  the  flowering  prairie,  on  the  level 
beach  of  the  swollen  river,  are  sometimes 
found  the  forever  quiet  bodies  of  those  who  in 
an  evil  hour  have  looked  upon  the  face  of  the 
lost  Coureur-de-Keiges. 


THE   VETERAN 


THE  VETERAN 

THE  excitement  was  intense  throughout 
the  county,  and  especially  in  such  centres 
as  Ste.  Philomene.  The  Liberals  were 
making  a  most  determined  effort  to  regain 
the  power  which  they  had  lost  soon  after 
the  death  of  the  elder  Malouin,  who  had  been 
their  acknowledged  leader  for  nearly  half 
a  centur}^,  and  no  effort  was  spared  on  either 
side.  Old  party  cries  and  shibboleths  w^ere 
revived,  racial  and  religious  differences  ap- 
pealed to,  and  discords  rekindled  with  unhesi- 
tating activity. 

One  of  the  strong  cards  of  the  Rouge  party 
on  nomination  day  at  Ste.  Philomene  was 
Phileas  Trancheraontagne,  the  cobbler  of  St. 
Isidore.  The  old  man  had  ever  found  time 
during  his  busiest  day  of  patching  to  entertain 
a  friend  with  cheerful  if  not  always  veracious 
conversation,  and  being  a  good  listener  as  well, 
155 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

his  little  workshop  was  seldom  empty,  save 
when  host  and  audience  could  execute  a 
stealthy  exit  and,  unmtercepted  by  Malvina 
his  wife,  gain  the  shelter  of  the  widow  Le- 
febvre's  to  wet  their  whistles  with  a  short  but 
effective  choke  of  her  fiery  "w'iskie  blanc." 
Long  practice  had  made  him  not  only  a  skilful 
story-teller,  but  even  something  of  an  orator; 
a  fervid  imagination  stood  him  in  stead  of  ex- 
perience and  raised  him  superior  to  all  facts, 
especially  when  dealing  with  matters  of  the 
past. 

On  the  eventful  day  he  was  kept  well  in  ev- 
idence. What  patriotic  Canadian  could  behold 
unmoved  this  old  man,  so  typical  of  all  that 
was  traditional  in  his  race,  dressed  from  top 
to  toe  in"etoffe  du  pa^^s,"  shod  with"bottes 
sauvages,"  smoking  a  pipe  made  from  a  knot 
of  hard  maple  constantly  refilled  with  "bon 
tabac  blanc"  from  a  time-worn  pouch  of  moose 
hide?  Under  tlie  stimulus  of  frequent  "p'ti' 
coups,'' "w'iskie  au  citron,"  and  "square  face," 
his  sonorous  references  to  "le  trente  sept," 
"St.  Denis,"  "St.  Eustache,"  and  "le  pauvre 
Chenier"  indicated  clearly  the  drift  of  his  in- 
tended flight,  and  when  his  leaders,  fore- 
156 


THE    VETERAN 

seeing  that  too  long  dalliance  with  the  heavy- 
bottomed  tumblers,  held  they  never  so  little, 
might  interfere  with  his  eloquence,  hurried 
him  up  to  address  the  waiting  crowd,  he  was  in 
his  best  form. 

ISTever  did  his  periods  roll  out  more  roundly ; 
after  a  strong  speech  in  favour  of  the  Liberal 
candidate,  whom  he  qualified  as  "un  veritable 
enfant  du  sol,"  a  direct  descendant  of  "the 
heroes  of  Thirty-Seven,"  he  alluded  to  the  un- 
happy differences  that  "Ac  and  Papineau"  had 
striven  to  adjust  by  all  peaceable  means,  and 
how  when  the  call  came  to  arms  "/?d  and 
Chenier,  ce  pauvre  cher  homme,"  "At?  and 
Nelson,"  ^'he  and  DeLoriraier"  had  risen  as  a 
single  man,  backed  by  the  fathers,  uncles, 
cousins,  and  the  whole  of  the  immediate  elder 
generation,  all  relatives  of  those  surrounding 
him,  and  had  held  the  might  of  England  at  bay 
until,  outnumbered,  suffering,  wounded,  dead 
and  dying,  they  had  laid  down  their  arms;  not 
conquered,  not  subdued,  but  ready  again,  at 
any  time,  night  or  day,  to  grasp  them  once 
more  at  the  agonized  cry  of  their  suffering 
countrymen,  should  any  foreign  power  once 
more  attempt  to  place  her  iron  heel  upon  the 

157 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

neck  of  a  people  who  were  cradled  in  the  lap 
of  Freedom ! 

The  enthusiasm  w^as  intense.  "With  that 
astonishing  aptitude  to  believe  any  sentiment 
w^hich  appeals  to  its  imagination,  the  crowd, 
Bleu  and  Rouge  alike,  caught  fire;  "Thirty- 
Seven  "  was  but  yesterday,  and  no  statement  of 
old  Tranchemontagne  seemed  too  extravagant 
for  acceptance ;  the  orator  was  cheered  to  the 
echo  and  congratulated  on  all  sides,  while  the 
frequent  exclamations  of  "Les  Patriotes," 
"Chenier,"  and  the  instant  relapse  into  rem- 
iniscence of  those  stormy  days,  showed  plainly 
the  trend  of  public  sentiment. 

So  general  was  the  feeling  aroused  that  it 
was  with  much  difficulty  that  young  Philippe 
Lebeau — of  course  "  le  beau  Philippe  "  to  his 
admirers — the  advocate  from  Ste.  Marguerite, 
obtained  a  hearing.  However,  he  soon  ar- 
rested attention  by  a  glowing  and  unexpected 
eulogy  of  those  who  had  sacrificed  both  lives 
and  property  in  the  days  of  "the  Thirty- 
Seven";  but  once  attention  was  warmed  into 
enthusiasm  he  quickly  changed  his  tone. 

"  It  must  not  be  forgotten,"  he  said,  "  that 
there  were  others  as  fully  deserving  the  name  of 
158 


THE    VETERAN 

'  Patriote.'  ]\Iy  old  grandfather  was  one  who 
withstood  all  popular  disfavour  and  obloquy, 
because  he  would  not  fio-ht  a2,'ainst  that  fiao; 
under  whose  folds  he  and  his  fellow- heroes, 
French  and  English  alike,  repulsed  the  invader 
in  1812  on  the  field  of  Chdteauguay.  No  po- 
litical faction  could  force  him  to  forswear  the 
oath  his  ancestor  had  taken  in  accepting  Brit- 
ish rule  and  protection  when  French  Canada 
was  abandoned  b}^  the  mother- country.  And, 
while  honouring  both  classes  of  men,  we  must 
not  be  led  away  by  the  statements  of  the  last 
speaker,  Avhose  eloquence  has  ahva3'S  outdis- 
tanced his  appreciation  of  the  actual  facts  of 
an}'-  question.  I  am  not  aware  that  either  his- 
tory or  tradition  has  preserved  any  record  of 
his  services  in  the  constitutional  struggle  in- 
augurated by  the  great  Papineau,  I  have  never 
heard  that  his  military  knowledge  or  experi- 
ence materially  strengthened  the  hands  of  the 
leaders  in  the  appeal  to  arms ;  however,  I  do 
know  that  he  never  saw  either  St.  Charles  or 
St.  Denis  with  his  physical  eyes,  that  he  never 
so  much  as  spoke  to  Dr.  Chenier;  and,  what  is 
more,  the  only  military  service  he  ever  ren- 
dered was  when  a  solitary  skirmisher  of  Sir 

159 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

John  Colborne's  column,  coming  unexpectedly 
upon  a  score  of  Patriotes'  drilling  in  a  field 
near  St.  Benoit,  sent  a  musket- ball  whistling 
over  their  heads  to  give  them  timely  chance 
to  escape,  he,  Phileas  Tranchemontagne,  in 
his  familiarity  with  the  usages  of  modern  war- 
fare, sprang  to  the  top  of  the  intervening  stone 
Avail,  and  wildly  waving  his  arms  screamed 
out:  'Quien!  Quien!  Quoi'ce  tu  fais  la?  Y'a 
du  monde  ici!'  " - 

The  veteran  missed  his  coup. 

*  "  Hi !    Hi!    What  are  j'ou  about  there?    There  are 
people  over  here!" 


UNE    SCEUR 


UNE   SCEUR 

IT  was  more  than  sixty  years  ago,  and  was 
the  closing  day  at  the  little  country  con- 
vent of  St.  Pierre  des  Monts.  It  was  a 
day  important,  even  among  closing  da3's,  for 
the  first  gold  medal  offered  in  the  convent  had 
been  won,  and  was  to  be  presented  by  Mon- 
seigneur  the  Bishop,  who  had  come  to  this 
distant  centre  of  gentle  civilization  for  that 
express  purpose,  and  now  sat  on  the  platform 
surrounded  by  his  coadjutor,  the  Cure  of  the 
parish,  the  Mother  Superior,  and  the  principal 
members  of  the  community. 

His  Grace's  purple  was  the  only  point  of 
decided  colour  in  the  room.  The  solemn-faced 
local  member  was  in  glossy  broadcloth,  the 
visiting  friends  and  relations  were  in  black  or 
gray  homespun,  the  nuns  and  clergy  in  sombre 
gown  or  soutane,  while  the  younger  classes 
wore  the  regulation  black  alpaca  of  the  con- 

163 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

vent.  All  this  served  to  throw  the  graduatinff 
class  into  high  relief.  Like  a  row  of  lilies,  these 
maidens  stood  before  the  platform,  fresh  and 
pure  and  sweet  in  snowy  lawn,  their  eager 
faces  aglow  with' the  charm  of  youth  and  all 
eyes  alight  with  expectation. 

The  gold -medallist  was  a  tall,  black -eyed 
maid  of  sixteen,  with  a  line,  oval  face  and  reg- 
ular features,  surrounded  by  a  glorious  crown 
of  luxuriant  hair.  Her  progress  and  standing 
throughout  her  course  had  been  extraordinarj^, 
and  the  words  of  praise  and  encouragement 
with  which  the  Bishop  presented  the  prize  were 
spoken  with  deserved  appreciation  of  her  effort 
and  success. 

As  he  ended  he  took  the  little  gold  cross  in 
his  hand,  and  reading  the  inscription,  "  Mar- 
celine  Legendre,  Convent  de  Notre  Dame  des 
Monts,  July  1814,"  he  said:  "My  child,  you 
are  now  beginning  your  larger  life,  and  none 
of  us  can  say  what  it  may  hold  for  you" — 
here  the  girl  glanced  quickly  up  at  the  Moth- 
er Superior,  her  e3'es  big  with  tears,  while 
the  Bishop  went  on  — "  but  be  certain  that 
your  honest  endeavour  will  ever  meet  with 
its  reward,  as  sure  if  not  as  tangible  as  this 

164 


UNE    SCEUR 

precious  cross  which  I  now  place  in  your 
keeping." 

AVlien  the  little  ceremony  was  over,  em- 
bracings,  congratulations,  and  compliments 
followed  from  all  present.  Beside  Marceline 
stood  her  mother,  a  glance  at  whom,  although 
she  was  now  worn  and  bowed  with  a  life  of 
labour,  told  whence  the  girl  derived  her  beauty 
and  carriage.  Now  her  quiet  face  was  lighted 
with  a  grateful  joy  in  her  daughter's  triumph. 
All  the  privations  necessitated  by  the  expense  of 
Marceline's  education  were  fully  repaid,  every 
word  of  praise  fell  refreshingly  on  her  mother 
heart;  in  her  joy  she  had  grown  young  once 
more,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  the  same  exalte 
light  which  illumined  her  daughter's  face. 

When  the  time  for  departure  came,  Marceline 
lingered  to  the  last,  but  now  her  little  wood- 
en trunk  was  placed  in  the  springless  charette, 
old  Blonde  stood  patiently  at  the  door,  and 
Madame  Legendre  listened  earnestly  to  the 
parting  words  of  the  Mother  Superior,  while 
Marceline  stood  hand-in-hand  with  her  friend 
la  Soeur  Ste.  Therese,  the  youngest  sister  in 
the  community.  Finally  the  last  farewells 
were  said ;  the  two  women  climbed  into  the 
165 


TX    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

high  cart,  and  the  elder  taking  up  the  reins 
they  drove  slowly  through  the  convent  gates. 

The  long  July  evening  was  just  beginning ; 
its  peaceful  glow  invited  silence,  and  they 
drove  on  without  speaking.  The  mother  had 
all  the  familiar  past  before  her,  and  her  heart 
was  filled  with  thankfulness ;  the  daughter 
had  all  the  unknown  future,  and  she  was  weep- 
ing silently  with  averted  face. 

Their  road  lay  along  the  river,  beyond  which 
the  sun  was  setting,  throwing  the  shadows  of 
the  dense  pines  in  great  black  patches  across 
their  way  and  making  great  golden  glories  in 
the  open. 

Through  alternate  light  and  shadow  the 
jolting  charette  moved  onward  with  its  silent 
occupants,  until  the  girl's  hand  stole  beneath 
her  black  woollen  shawl  and  clasping  her 
mother's  she  said:  "Es  tu  contente,  maman?" 
and  for  answer  the  mother  bent  over  and  kissed 
her. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  before  the  tired 
travellers  drove  into  the  little  passage,  just 
wide  enough  to  admit  the  charette,  beside  their 
cottage  in  the  village  of  Ste.  Philomene. 
From   the   side -window   shone   a  welcoming 

166 


UNE    SCEUR 

gleam  of  light,  which  was  darkened  by  an  in- 
tervening head  the  moment  Blonde  slackened 
her  pace,  and  a  merry  series  of  raps  on  the 
closely  fastened  window  tapped  out  a  joyous 
recognition  of  their  home-coming. 

"Eun  in,  child!  He  has  waited  all  day  for 
you.     I'll  look  after  Blonde." 

Without  a  word  Marceline  leaped  liglitly 
out  and  hurried  into  the  house,  where  she  Avas 
greeted  by  a  thankful,  satisfied  cry  as  she  knelt 
beside  a  low  chair  and  clasped  to  her  breast 
the  little  figure  seated  therein.  She  might 
have  been  a  mother,  so  protecting  was  her 
embrace,  so  tender  was  the  caressing  touch  of 
her  hand  on  the  head  pillowed  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Wait  one  moment,  cheri,  I  must  bring 
maman  the  light,"  and  lifting  the  pierced  tin 
lantern  from  the  peg  behind  the  door,  she  blew 
the  embers  on  the  hearth  into  a  Hame  and 
lighted  the  candle. 

In  a  few  moments  she  returned,  and  kneeling 
before  the  low  chair  said :  "  Let  us  see  how  my 
Octave  has  kept  himself !"  As  she  spoke  she 
pushed  the  boy's  hair  back  from  his  forehead 
and  held  his  face  in  both  her  hands.  It  had 
the  same  delicate  contour  as  her  own,  and  her 
167 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

line  eyes  looked  into  eyes  of  even  greater  depth 
and  lustre,  but  the  face  wanted  her  warm 
colour,  and  the  sensitive  moutli  was  marked 
with  lines  of  suffering.  However,  they  were 
only  lines  of  suffering,  not  of  discontent  or 
selfishness,  and  there  Avas  a  happy  sweetness 
to  his  voice  as  he  laughed  :  "  And  3"ou,  ma 
belle?  But  I  needn't  ask,  you  grow  prettier 
every  day,  and  I  know  you've  got  the  medal. 
I  was  sure  of  that !     Where  is  it  ?" 

With  a  glad  smile  Marceline  drew  the 
precious  prize  from  her  bosom  and  handed  it 
to  the  expectant  Octave.  "  Oh,  Marceline !" 
he  cried  in  his  joy,  as  he  drew  the  full  softness 
of  her  olive  cheek  close  to  his ;  and  when  the 
mother  entered  to  find  them  both  admiring  the 
golden  guerdon,  she,  in  turn,  said  softly,  as  she 
caught  the  girl's  upward  glance:  "Es  tu  con- 
tente,  fiUette  ?"  at  which  Octave  laughed  mer- 
rily and  the  happy  mother  failed  to  note  Mar- 
celine's  silence. 

That  night  Marceline  knelt  before  the  little 
crucifix  over  her  bed  and  prayed  as  she  had 
only  learned  to  pray  during  the  past  year.  It 
was  a  pitiful  prayer  for  patience,  for  resig- 
nation, and  for  courage,  with  all  the  weakness 
168 


UNE    SCEUR 

of  a  deavly  cherished  desire  welling  up  through 
her  appeal. 

During  her  last  year  at  the  convent  her 
dream  had  been  to  enter  the  community.  Not 
through  any  conscious  spirit  of  self-sacrifice: 
her  character  was  too  devoutly  fervent  to  real- 
ize any  personal  merit  in  such  a  consecration 
of  her  life. 

She  had  never  considered  the  possibility  of 
any  opposition  until  near  the  end  of  the  year 
when  she  had  spoken  of  her  desire  to  the  Mother 
Superior,  who,  to  her  surprise,  reminded  her 
that  there  were  earthly  duties  as  well  as  spirit- 
ual. Her  mother,  on  whose  care  her  crippled 
brother  Octave  was  entirely  dependent,  was  no 
longer  a  young  woman.  She  must  be  sure  she 
was  not  forsaking  an  evident  duty  before  her 
in  taking  such  a  step,  and,  above  all,  she  must 
consult  with  the  Abbe  Marsolet  when  next 
he  visited  the  convent. 

It  was  a  new  light  for  the  girl.  She  her- 
self had  been  so  constantly  cared  for  that  she 
had  never  realized  the  responsibilities  of  life 
must  some  day  present  themselves  before  her, 
when  she  would  be  called  upon  to  accept  or 
reject  them.  And,  as  she  thought  her  position 
169 


IN    OLD    FRANCE   AND     NEW 

over,  she  dinil^y  realized  that  perhaps  her  pres- 
ent action  miglit  prove  her  decision. 

Le  pere  Marsolet,  a  priest  of  wide  sympathies 
and  great  experience,  found  Marceline  strangely 
troubled  and  perplexed.  How  could  she  be 
wronof  in  such  a  desire?  Had  not  Christ  him- 
self  said :  "  He  that  loveth  father  or  mother 
more  than  me,  is  not  worthy  of  me?"  Would 
He  not  care  for  her  mother  and  brother  ?  Could 
the  consecration  of  her  life  to  His  service  be  a 
mistake  ? 

Thereupon  the  abbe  pointed  out  her  clear 
line  of  duty  with  an  authority  which  the 
Mother  Superior  had  not  assumed :  "  M}^  child, 
God  calls  upon  us  all  to  pray  alike,  but  He 
calls  on  each  one  to  work  in  different  ways, 
and  in  so  far  as  we  rebel  and  try  to  work  in 
ways  of  our  own  choosing,  just  in  so  far  are 
we  wrong,  and  in  so  far  will  our  work  be  fruit- 
less. 

"  Be  thankful  that  you  have  no  doubt  as  to 
your  course.  Be  sure  also  that  you  can  serve 
God  no  more  effectually  here  in  the  Convent 
of  Saint- Pierre  than  in  your  own  home  at 
Sainte-Philomene.  He  will  call  you  back  here 
in  His  own  time  if  your  service  be  needed,  but 
170 


UNE    SCEUR 

to-day  He  calls  you  to  the  side  of  your  mother 
and  brother. 

"  Humanly  speaking,  your  time  of  probation 
cannot  be  long ;  although  that  is  a  side  from 
which  I  would  be  sorry  for  you  to  look  for  any 
comfort — but,  long  or  short,  never  allow  your- 
self to  think  that  the  true  service  of  God  is 
confined  within  an}^  particular  spot  or  to  any 
outward  form  and  manner  of  life;  and,  in  ac- 
cepting this  service,  remember  you  are  not 
making  a  spiritual  sacrifice  any  more  than  you 
would  be  in  following  the  desire  of  your  heart 
by  remaining  here." 

Then  followed  his  words  of  kindl}'  human 
comfort  and  encouragement ;  and  Marceline 
knew  the  truth  of  it  all  and  accepted  it,  but  that 
night,  the  first  of  her  new  life,  she  cried  herself 
asleep  beside  her  bed  in  the  moonlight  before 
the  crucifix  on  the  white  wall  of  her  chamber. 

The  next  morning  the  new  life  began,  and 
Marceline  filled  her  place  in  the  little  house- 
hold as  if  she  had  never  dreamed  of  a  different 
future.  The  first  bitterness  had  passed  in  that 
lonely  vigil,  and  as  the  time  went  on  all  such 
feeling  died  out  absolutely. 
171 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

She  assumed  the  entire  charge  of  her  brother, 
who  improved  steadily  under  her  unceasing 
care.  While  she  had  been  absent  at  the  con- 
vent the  boy  found  such  pleasure  as  he  might 
with  older  people.  Country  lads  have  too 
many  occupations  and  too  little  sympathy  for 
any  companionship  with  a  boy  like  Octave, 
whom  they  rather  despised  on  account  of  his 
infirmity,  their  only  recognition  of  his  existence 
being  a  jeering  call  as  they  passed  his  window. 
Thus  cut  off  from  those  of  his  own  age  he  de- 
veloped only  the  graver  side  of  his  nature,  and 
was  in  danger  of  losing  much  of  the  generous 
qualities  of  youth.  With  returning  health  came 
a  gracious  expansion  of  his  being;  his  world 
began  to  unfold  new  beauties  and  hold  forth 
new  possibilities  under  the  sunshine  of  Mar- 
celine's  bright  companionship. 

Her  ambition  had  been  too  thoroughly 
aroused  by  her  success  to  make  her  willing 
to  settle  down  to  a  mere  routine  of  house- 
work and  nursing;  her  care  of  Octave  must  go 
beyond  faithful  devotion  to  his  comfort  or 
amusement,  and  being  a  bright,  intelligent  boy 
he  responded  readily  to  her  effort.  They  were 
both  passionately  fond  of  reading,  and  together 

172 


UNE    SCEUR 

they  eagerly  devoured  the  books  she  had 
brought  home  and  such  as  they  could  borrow 
from  the  Cure  andMaitre  Cabazier,  the  Notary. 

Maitre  Cabazier,  au  old  bachelor,  had  known 
both  brother  and  sister  from  their  birth ;  and 
his  nephew  Philippe,  whom  he  had  brought 
up,  had  been  Marceline's  constant  playmate  be- 
fore they  separated  for  school  and  convent. 
Philippe  had  done  brilliantly  at  college  and  was 
now  making  his  way  as  an  advocate  in  the  city, 
and  the  lonely  old  man  had  turned  for  conso- 
lation to  the  lonely  crip])le,  Octave  Legendre. 

Octave's  whimsical,  old-fashioned  talk  was 
a  rest  to  him,  he  declared,  after  a  day's  hard 
work;  and,  with  an  old  man's  quiet  amusement 
in  little  things,  he  developed  the  boy's  powers 
in  this  direction  to  an  unusual  degree.  He  ad- 
mired his  innate  quickness  of  judgment,  and 
took  a  delight  in  discussing  and  expounding 
curious  or  difficult  points  of  practice  to  the 
boy,  who  comprehended  all  the  intricacies  of 
"family"  law  with  the  intuition  of  his  race. 

Upon  Marceline's  return  he  took  an  active 

interest  in  her  efforts  with  Octave,  and  was 

especially  pleased  at  his  progress  in  writing, 

for  the  boy  rapidly  acquired  a  modified  form 

173 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

of  Marceline's  pretty  Italian  hand,  in  which 
they  both  took  great  pleasure  and  practised 
assiduously. 

Octave  had  at  times  discussed  with  him  the 
possibility  of  turning  his  natural  dexterity  of 
hand  to  some  account,  and  regretted  there  was 
no  opportunity  in  their  little  village  for  the 
trade  of  a  watchmaker,  but  to  this  the  old 
man  replied  triumphantly:  "Writing!  my  son, 
writing;  stick  to  that!  Look  at  me!  With 
my  pen  I  make  secure  what  others  win  by 
their  arms;  I  write  men  into  their  marriages, 
into  their  homes,  and,  last  of  all" — he  laughed 
— "into  their  graves." 

One  night  when  Marceline  produced  with 
pride  a  most  creditable  specimen  of  his  progress, 
the  Notary  exclaimed,  vigorously:  "Eh,  mon 
vieux!  there  is  your  trade  at  j'-our  tinger-ends! 
'No  more  watchmaking  or  nonsense  of  that 
sort !  Voyons !  I  am  an  old  man  now,  and 
killed  with  copying  out  my  aotes,  a  work  I 
detest.  Are  you  too  lazy  to  help  an  old  idler, 
or  will  you  be  ready  to  copy  out  a  contrat  de 
mariage  for  me  in  the  morning?  I  won't  pay 
much,  mind !  and  every  mistake  will  take  off 
so  much  of  the  pay.  Come !  " 
174 


UNE    SCEUR 

Marceline's  eves  were  full  of  grateful  tears, 
and  that  night  the  brother  and  sister  saw 
a  new  world  full  of  promise  opening  before 
them. 

Ah,  Maitre  Cabazier,  you  may  well  donble 
up  your  kindly  hands  under  3'our  cloak  and 
smile  and  talk  to  yourself  on  your  way  home, 
for  a  kindlier  act  3^ou  have  never  done  in  your 
long,  honourable  life! 

The  copjing  was  entirely  successful,  but  a 
week  or  so  later  Maitre  Cabazier  began  to 
growl:  "This  won't  do  at  all,  Marceline!  I 
can't  have  Octave  wasting  his  time  in  simplj^ 
copying.  Then,  I  have  no  control  over  him, 
and  the  first  thing  I  know  he  may  be  blabbing 
my  secrets  to  the  first  person  he  meets.  No! 
no!  If  I  am  to  make  any  use  of  him,  I  must 
be  his  patron,  and  then  I  will  know  where  I 
am." 

Maitre  Cabazier  his  patron  ?  "Why,  that 
meant  that  in  five  short  years  Octave  might 
be  a  notary  himself,  provided  he  knew  his 
Pothier  and  Coutume  de  Paris.  And  why 
not  ?  So  there  was  great  rejoicing  in  the  fam- 
ily the  day  Maitre  Cabazier  appeared  Avith  his 
confrere  Maitre  Normandin,  and  he  with  Ma- 
175 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    N'few 

dame  Legendre  and  Octave  affixed  their  si^:- 
natures  to  the  brevet  de  clericature. 

Then  time  went  on  apace,  Marceline's 
hands  were  full  between  her  household  duties 
and  her  work  with  Octave,  She  read  aloud 
the  deeds  as  he  copied,  they  compared  them 
together,  and  she  did  all  the  running  to  and 
fro  between  the  house  and  the  office  of  the  old 
Notary.  Together  they  bravely  attacked  the 
stout  quartos  which  contain  the  wisdom  and 
subtlety  of  the  famous  Pothier,  revered  of 
notaries,  and  hand -in -hand  they  treaded  the 
devious  labyrinth  of  the  Coutume  de  Paris. 
Never  had  Marceline  been  so  busy  or  so  happ}', 
and  her  letters  to  the  Mother  Superior  and  her 
friend  la  Soeur  Ste,  Therese  were  full  of  con- 
tent with  her  lot. 

The  old  Notary  laughed  at  their  eagerness, 
and  as  often  examined  Marceline  as  Octave, 
He  invented  problems  and  cases  for  their  solv- 
ing. He  seldom  entered  the  house  without 
some  legal  puzzle  to  unravel,  and  when  Philippe 
came  home  for  his  rare  holiday  one  New  Years, 
he  brought  him  with  pride  to  renew  his  boyish 
friendship  with  Marceline,  whom  he  introduced 
as  "la  plus  parfaite  notairesse  du  pays." 
17G 


UXE    SCEUR 

Octave  fulfilled  his  time  with  Maitre  Caba- 
zier,  and  eventuall}^  succeeded  to  his  greffe  and 
practice. 

There  were,  of  course,  certain  outside  duties 
which  he  could  not  undertake,  but  he  acquired 
such  a  reputation  for  probit}'  and  skill  through- 
out the  country  that  on  market  days  the  little 
house  was  full  of  waiting  clients  from  raorninir 
till  night. 

His  kindly  patron  seldom  moved  abroad  now, 
but  Octave's  success  was  a  constant  pleasure 
to  him,  as  were  Marceline's  daily  visits  and 
frequent  consultations  on  knott}'  points,  to  the 
unravelling  of  which  he  readily  lent  all  his 
experience  and  knowledge. 

His  experiment  had  been  entirely  successful, 
but  there  was  another  possibility  which  he 
long  hesitated  to  put  to  the  touch,  until  one 
summer  morning,  when  Marceline  was  about 
leaving,  he  took  his  courage  in  both  hands  and 
said: 

"  Just  one  moment,  my  child.  Sit  down  and 
listen  patiently  for  a  little  to  an  old  man  whose 
affection  must  be  his  excuse  if  it  has  led  him 
astray." 

There  was  an  unusual  tenderness  in  his  tone^ 

M  177 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

which  caused  Marcehne  to  look  keenly  at  his 
strong,  venerable  face.  She  marked  how  it  had 
lost  all  its  harder  traits  in  the  quiet  peaceful- 
ness  of  these  later  years,  and  was  surprised  at 
an  almost  timid  entreaty  in  the  clear  brown 
eyes  which  appealed  to  her  with  all  the  force 
of  unwonted  emotion  in  a  strong  nature. 

"  Marceline,"  he  continued, "  you  know  with- 
out my  telling  you  what  I  think  of  Philippe. 
He  is  a  good  boy,  a  man  now  ;  he  has  never 
disappointed  me  in  anything,  and  to-day,  when 
I  see  him  gaining  an  honourable  position  by  his 
own  exertion,  m}'-  heart  cries  out  that  he  is  not 
even  nearer  to  me  than  he  is.  You  know  what 
he  was  as  a  child — a  heart  of  gold.  To  this  his 
years  have  only  added  wisdom  and  virtue,  and 
success  has  taken  away  nothing.  Still,  he  is  a 
young  man,  only  at  the  beginning  of  life,  and 
I  have  seen  men,  as  full  of  promise  as  he,  lose 
all  that  seemed  secure  within  their  grasp" — he 
paused  for  a  moment  with  a  far-away  look  in 
his  eyes  as  if  he  again  saw  the  course  of  the 
wrecked  lives  that  had  set  forth  with  such 
hopes,  and  when  he  roused  himself  he  Avent  on 
with  a  yearning  appeal — "Marceline,  ray  child, 
onh^  a   mother  can  know  the   anxiety  wnth 

178 


UNE    SCEUR 

which  I  look  forward  to  his  future !  Only  a 
mother  can  realize  what  I  would  sacrifice  for 
his  sake! 

"  I  am  an  old  man  now,  even  older  than  my 
years,  for  I  am  just  upon  the  entrance  to  an- 
other world,  and  when  I  look  back  towards 
this,  in  which  there  ma}'  be  so  much  happiness 
or  so  much  raiser}^  I  am  tempted  to  do  Avhat 
I  can  to  secure  the  happiness  of  those  I  love. 

"  I  have  watched  3'ou  and  Octave  since  your 
mother  bore  you  in  her  arms,  and  since  Phi- 
lippe has  left,  you  have  become  a  part  of  my 
life.  Knowing  this,  you  also  know  I  could 
propose  nothing  which  I  did  not  believe  was 
for  your  highest  good — "  Here  the  old  man 
hesitated  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  Mar- 
celine,  whose  face  suddenly  flamed  with  colour 
as  she  realized  his  thought.  Her  visible  emo- 
tion might  be  open  to  a  favourable  interpreta- 
tion, but  with  a  tightening  pain  at  his  heart 
he  recognized  no  answering  light  in  her  eyes, 
which  looked  into  his  honestly,  pityingly,  but 
without  response. 

Still,  he  was  pleading  the  cause  of  another, 
and  he  continued  slowly,  watching  her  face 
carefully  as  he  spoke:  "  I  have  seen  you  grow 
179 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

from  child  into  woman,  Marceline,  and  I  know 
what  a  blessing  such  a  woman  may  be  to  any 
man  worthy — such  a  man — as  I  know — Phi- 
lippe— "  the  words  came  slower  and  slower, 
for  it  seemed  as  if  Marceline  were  somehow 
apart,  removed  from  the  appeal,  even  of  one 
so  entitled  to  a  hearing  as  himself,  and  the 
faltering  w^ords  ceased,  as  her  hand  stole  un- 
consciously to  the  little  golden  cross  on  her 
breast. 

It  was  her  answer. 

He  said  nothing  further,  and  a  moment  later 
picked  up  his  book  and  pretended  he  was  alone, 
whereupon  she  arose  and,  without  a  word, 
passed  out  into  the  sunlight  of  the  narrow 
street. 

Madame  Legendre  died  full  of  years  and 
content;  Marceline  grew  from  womanhood 
into  old  age,  the  black  hair  became  silvery,  the 
olive  cheek  lost  its  roundness  and  its  tinge  of 
red;  but  Octave,  the  fragile  cripple,  whose 
days  seemed  measured  forty  years  before,  held 
on  his  useful,  busy  career,  sheltered  from  the 
storms  and  temptations  of  life  by  reason  of  his 
very  weakness. 

180 


U  N  E     S  CE  U  R 

Although  he  was  esteemed  a  wealthy  man, 
the  brother  and  sister  lived  on  in  the  same 
simple,  frugal  manner  in  which  they  had  been 
brought  up.  Neither  of  them  had  ever  been 
beyond  the  limits  of  Ste.  Philomene  since 
Marceline's  return  from  the  convent;  for  Oc- 
tave it  was  an  impossibility,  and  her  place  was 
by  his  side. 

Her  interest  in  the  convent  never  ceased; 
th3  community  had  removed  from  St.  Pierre 
to  the  city,  but  her  old  friend,  la  soeur  Ste. 
Tlierese,  faithfully  kept  up  her  monthl}'-  letter, 
and  every  change  was  known  to  Marceline, 
who  had  long  proved  the  truth  of  the  Abbe 
Marsolet's  words,  and  was  spiritually  as  much, 
a  member  of  her  beloved  community  within 
the  walls  of  her  home  as  if  she  had  worn  coif 
and  gown  within  the  convent. 

She  felt  it  would  be  wrong  to  lock  up  the 
drearaings  of  her  heart  from  Octave — in  fact, 
it  would  have  been  impossible  in  the  intimacy 
of  their  relations;  so  they  talked  openly  and 
freely  of  her  dream,  and  if  regret  existed  it 
was  onl}'"  expressed  by  him. 

Yet  at  times,  in  the  quiet  of  the  summer 
afternoon,  as  Marceline  sat  knitting  behind  the 
181 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

screen  of  geranium  plants  in  the  front  window, 
when  there  was  no  sound  save  the  buzz  of 
flies  on  the  pane,  a  vision  of  the  white  interior 
and  the  unpainted  wood-work  of  the  humble 
convent  would  come  back,  the  brave,  tireless 
hands  would  sink  in  quiet  on  her  lap,  and  the 
gray-haired  woman  was  a  girl  again  beside  her 
dear  soeur  Ste.  Thercse  in  the  colourless  purity 
of  her  early  life. 

At  last  the  day  came  which  the  abbe  had 
foretold;  Octave  and  she  had  lived  an  abso- 
lutely uninterrupted  life  of  fifty  years  together 
since  the  day  she  had  left  the  convent  and 
placed  her  golden  prize  in  his  hands;  he  had 
amply  repaid  every  sacrifice  she  had  made,  for 
their  lives  had  been  one,  every  effort  had  been 
undertaken  together,  and  every  success  had 
brought  a  common  joy. 

He  passed  away  as  quietly  as  he  had  lived, 
and  when  she  followed  his  bod}^  into  the 
church,  which  he  had  never  entered  save  in 
his  godmother's  arms  on  the  day  of  his  chris- 
tening, her  heart  was  as  full  of  thankfulness 
as  of  sorrow. 

She  was  wealthy,  enormously  so  in  the  opin- 

182 


UNE    SGEUR 

ion  of  her  neighbours,  and  the  remainder  of 
her  life  might  be  passed  in  comfort  and  good 
works.  But  tlie  dream  of  the  girl  of  sixteen 
was  still  that  of  the  woman  of  sixtj^-six,  and 
as  soon  as  she  had  set  her  affairs  in  order  she 
turned  her  face  towards  the  city,  to  be  wel- 
comed at  the  convent  door  by  her  friend,  la 
soeur  Ste.  Therese. 

That  night  the  nun  heard  a  low  sound  of 
weeping  in  the  adjoining  room,  and,  entering 
softly,  she  found  Marceline  on  her  knees. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  1"  whispered  the  elder 
woman,  tenderly,  as  she  sank  on  the  floor  be- 
side her,  with  her  trembling  hand  protectingly 
on  the  thin  gray  hair  which  she  had  not 
touched  since  it  shone  black  and  luxuriant, 
the  glor\^  of  the  first  gold  medallist  of  the 
convent  fifty  years  before. 

At  her  touch  Marceline  leaned  close  to  her 
as  if  she  were  a  girl  again  :  "Ah,  ma  soeur!  I 
bring  nothing  now  !  Then— I  had  beauty,  and 
it  has  gone!  I  had  youth,  and  it  has  fled! 
They  said  I  had  talent,  and  it  has  died !  And 
now — I  come  with  nothing  but  a  few  years  of 
life  and  some  Avorthless  gold.     Ma  soeur,  ma 

183 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

scour!  if  it  only  could  have  been  fifty  years 
ago !'' 

The  protecting  hand  gently  stroked  the  sil- 
ver hair  and  smoothed  the  wrinkled  cheek, 
and,  soothingly,  as  a  mother  comforts  her 
child,  she  whispered  the  loving  assurance: 
"  No,  no,  my  sister  !  You  have  brought  what 
is  better  than  all  else — the  beauty  of  a  perfect 
life  and  the  riches  of  a  heart  that  has  held 
nothing  higher  than  the  love  of  God" — and 
the  two  women  kissed  each  other  in  the  silence 
of  the  night. 


MON    ROCIIER 


MON    KOCHER 

TIIEIIE  was  a  hea.vy  bank  of  fog  lying 
low  over  the  sullen  waters  of  the  Sag- 
uenay  as  we  left  the  western  side  to 
cross  the  river  and  descend  the  other  shore 
with  the  full  force  of  the  current.  Before  we 
reached  the  middle  of  the  stream  the  fog  w^as 
sweeping  across  in  belts  so  thick  that  at  times 
we  could  only  dimly  see  the  almost  immovable 
figure  of  Xavier,  the  metis,  seated  high  in  the 
stern  of  our  canoe,  but  these,  in  turn,  were 
quickly  blown  away  as  we  steadily  advanced. 
The  wind  was  beginning  to  make  its  voice 
heard  above  the  rush  of  the  river,  and  it  was 
fast  growing  unpleasantly  dark,  but  we  kept 
on  our  way,  watching  with  a  comforting  sense 
of  protection  the  impassive  face  of  the  half- 
breed,  confident  in  his  skill  and  knowledge  of 
every  possible  danger.  Yet  it  was  a  relief  when 
we  saw  him  give  a  backward  stroke,  and  the 
187 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

canoe  swung  with  her  bow  up-stream,  and  bare- 
ly touched  the  shore  before  he  Avas  in  the  water, 
steatlying  her  with  one  hand  and  helping  us 
out  with  the  other.  Ko  explanation  was  need- 
ed :  the  rising  wind  and  gathering  gloom 
brought  the  message  of  the  coming  storm,  and 
Xavier  was  no  waster  of  words.  As  he  lifted 
the  canoe  lightly  into  safet}^  we  looked  about 
us  to  find  that  we  were  on  a  narrow  strip  of 
green,  shut  in  between  the  black  river  we  had 
crossed  and  the  stunted  growth  of  juniper  and 
fir  along  the  bottom  of  an  almost  perpendicu- 
lar cliff,  which  rose  black  and  forbidding  to  its 
overhanging  crown  of  green  above. 

Our  rising  feeling  of  isolation  was  quieted, 
however,  by  the  unexpected  sight  of  a  little 
whitewashed  cottage,  with  its  surrounding 
garden  nestling  close  under  the  foot  of  the 
mighty  rock,  not  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
away. 

In  glad  surprise  we  shook  out  our  rumpled 
skirts  and  hurried  towards  it.  We  passed 
through  the  little  whitewashed  gate  and  up  the 
garden  path,  between  the  geraniums,  phlox, 
sweet-williams,  and  other  old-fashioned  flow- 
ers, to  receive  a  hearty  -welcome  at  the  open 
188 


MON    ROCHER 

door  from  the  mistress  of  the  house.  "With 
our  knowledge  of  that  generous  hospitality 
which  makes  every  Canadian  house  a  shelter 
to  the  traveller  in  time  of  need,  we  entered 
the  usual  living-room,  with  its  well-scrubbed 
floor  partially  hidden  by  the  pieces  of  cata- 
logue, the  reds  and  yellows  in  wliich  made 
cheerful  contrast  to  the  dark  blue  of  the  wain- 
scot and  to  the  whitewashed  walls;  the  usual 
three-storied  stove  stood  high  in  the  centre, 
with  its  short  black  lengths  of  pipe  reaching 
across  to  the  square  chimney  jutting  well 
out  into  the  room,  flanked  by  wooden  cup- 
boards in  each  angle,  its  great  square  hearth, 
witii  its  ample,  clean-swept  stone,  yawning  be- 
low. A  deal  table  with  blue  legs  and  a  top 
rubbed  and  used  into  a  satin}^  smoothness 
stood  by  one  of  the  low  square  windows,  and 
six  straight-legged,  narrow-backed  chairs  with 
seats  of  netted  deer  sinew  balanced  themselves 
against  the  blue  line  of  the  garde-mur.  Over 
the  fireplace  was  a  small  coloured  print  of  St. 
Anne,  which,  with  a  black  wooden  crucifix 
adorned  with  a  few  bunches  of  sweet-smelling 
pine,  were  the  only  attempts  at  ornament. 
The  partitions  separated  us  from  the  bed- 
189 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

room  and  pantry;  we  knew  that  overhead  was 
the  high,  unfinished  garret  which  insured  cool- 
ness in  summer  and  safe-keeping  for  such  pro- 
visions as  would  not  be  injured  by  frost  in 
winter  —  a  typical  specimen  of  the  better 
class  of  Canadian  house  in  that  part  of  the 
countrv. 

Our  hostess  was  a  line  specimen  of  woman- 
kind. Her  straight,  active  figure  was  shown 
to  advantage  in  her  plain  gray  skirt  of  home- 
spun, which  fell  without  fold  or  plait  to  her 
ankles,  and  in  the  simple  mantelet  of  white 
linen.  All  this  was  as  thoroughly  home-like 
and  Canadian  as  her  surroundings,  but  her 
fair  pale  face,  with  her  blue  eyes  and  almost 
auburn  hair,  were  of  so  pronounced  a  Scotch 
type,  that  I  spoke  to  her  in  English  on  en- 
tering, but  she  had  only  smiled  and  apologized 
for  her  ignorance  of  the  language.  Her  voice 
and  accent  showed  unusual  cultivation.  Her 
face  was  marked  by  a  gentle,  thoughtful  grav- 
it}^  almost  sadness,  but  differing  altogether 
from  that  resigned  apathy  which  so  often 
hardens  the  faces  of  countr}''  people  into  ex- 
pressionless masks,  as  if  the  unending  round 
of  monotonous  work  had  crushed  all  emotion. 

190 


MON    ROC HER 

By  this  time  Xavier  was  smoking  beside  the 
low  fire  which  our  hostess  had  rekindled  upon 
the  hearth,  and  we  were  seated  with  her  at 
the  table,  now  covered  with  her  best  linen, 
drinking  green  tea  sweetened  witii  maple 
sugar,  and  eating  rye-bread  redeemed  by  per- 
fect butter,  in  a  sudden  but  natural  intimacy 
born  of  our  isolation. 

"Misere,  madame!  Have  you  always  lived 
here  ?"  asked  Louise,  as  a  heavy  peal  of  thunder 
perceptibly  shook  the  cottage,  and  growled  and 
boomed  as  it  died  away  down  the  course  of 
the  savage  river. 

"  Oh,  no !  I  am  from  la  Mai  Bale,"  she  an- 
swered, with  a  quiet  smile. 

Here,  then,  was  the  explanation  of  the  fair 
face  and  foreign  air.  She  mio-ht  be  a  Trem- 
blay,  or  a  Pelletier,  or  a  Chouinard,  but  back 
of  that  we  knew  there  was  a  Fraser,  or  a  War- 
ren, or  a  Murray,  the  blue  of  whose  Scottish 
eyes  shone  once  more  in  this  distant  de- 
scendant. It  was  very  plain.  Where  could  a 
woman  acquire  that  soldierly  bearing  and 
lightness  of  step  save  from  the  grandfather  or 
great-grandfather  who  had  looked  into  the 
French  muzzles   behind    Frederick    at   Ross- 

191 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

bach,  and  had  scaled  the  heights  behind  Wolfe 
at  Quebec. 

"  La  Mai  Baie,"  she  repeated,  slowly,  "  and 
then  I  never  thought  to  pass  my  life  here. 
But  can  we  ever  tell?"  She  rested  her  elbow 
on  the  table,  and  with  her  face  on  her  hand 
gazed  silently  out  of  the  window  on  the  dark- 
ening storm,  then,  after  a  little  pause,  as  if  it 
were  a  relief  to  speak,  she  continued  in  a  low 
voice :  "  Poor  papa !  he  had  planned  some- 
thing very  fine  for  us  girls.  You  see,  we  were 
four  with  Andre,  and  papa  was  rich.  But  he 
was  hard,  too,  and  went  the  worst  way  about 
his  plans,  as  he  did  about  his  family. 

"  We  never  grew  up  for  him,  so  he  treated 
us  all  as  children.  Things  grew  harder  every 
da}^,  until  Andre  left  home  for  Quebec,  two 
years  sooner  than  we  had  hoped,  and  the  bur- 
den fell  on  us. 

"  He  was  better  to  me,  ])erhaps,  than  any  of 
the  others,  for  he  was  proud  of  the  prizes  I 
brought  home  every  summer  from  the  con- 
vent; but  when  the  Sisters  praised  my  work 
and  my  progress,  he  grew  suspicious  that  they 
wished  to  make  me  a  nun,  and  this  because 
of  his  money.  However,  I  put  an  end  to  that 
192 


MON    110  CHER 

by  my  promise  that  I  would  never  enter  a 
convent.  My  word  was  always  sufficient  for 
him;  we  at  least  had  that  in  common,  so  I 
was  allowed  to  finish  my  studies  in  peace. 
To  tell  the  truth  I  never  had  the  slightest 
idea  of  convent  life.  I  cannot  bear  the 
staring  whiteness  of  the  walls,  the  close, 
religious  smell,  and  the  stillness,  that  is  so 
different  to  me  from  quiet.  I  hardly  look 
like  a  nun,  even  j^et,  do  I  ? 

"  Well,  the  convent  days  were  over  at  last 
and  I  went  home,  but  it  was  only  going  back 
to  the  old  life. 

"  There  were  faults  on  our  side,  too,  no 
doubt,  and  perhaps  all  might  have  been 
straightened  out  if  we  only  could  have  talked 
it  over,  but  a  girl  cannot  reason  with  her 
father  when  he  will  never  listen,  and  never 
look  on  her  but  as  a  child. 

"  Poor  papa !  Since  I  have  lived  alone  I  can 
guess  something  of  what  he  suffered  too,  but 
then  I  could  only  see  my  own  side. 

"  At  last  I  persuaded  him  to  let  me  take  the 

school  at  Ste.  Irenee,  and  I  was  glad  to  be 

out  of  the  never-ending  discussion ;  but  even 

distance  did  not  bring  peace,  and  then — well, 

N  193 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

it  came  to  a  question  between  us  two.  IIo 
would  not  reason,  only  command,  and  I  was 
as  proud  as  he,  and  I  kept  on  the  road  I  had 
chosen — and  it  has  led  me  here." 

She  broke  the  silence  which  followed  by  a 
laughing  comment  on  her  stupidity  for  not 
noticing  how  dark  it  had  grown,  and  ex- 
changed a  few  kindly  words  with  the  taciturn 
Xavier  as  she  lighted  the  lamp  and  again 
sat  down  by  us  to  await  the  passing  of  the 
storm. 

"  Has  this  place  any  name  ?"  I  asked, 
"  Mais,  oui,  madame,  Ste.  Anne." 
"  But  there  are  so  many  Ste.  Annes,"  laughed 
Louise.  "  La  Bonne  Ste.  Anne,  Ste.  Anne  des 
Monts,  Ste.  Anne  du  Bout  de  I'lsle,  Ste.  Anne 
de  la  Perade,  Ste.  Anne  de  ^\,  Ste.  Anne  de 
9a,  and  again  Ste.  Anne,  Ste.  Anne,  Ste.  Anne 
without  any  end.  Why  in  the  world  didn't 
they  give  it  some  other  name?  Surely  they 
needn't  always  stick  by  the  calendar?" 

"  Oh,  well !  It  is  not  a  bad  name  after  all. 
They  are  safer  too  when  they  stick  by  the 
saints,  or  else  they  tumble  into  a  Sault  aux 
Cochons,  or  something  worse." 

Here  there  was  a  warning  grunt  from  the 
194 


HON    ROCHE R 

listening  Xavier,  who  evidently  did  not  ap- 
prove of  the  turn  our  talk  was  taking. 

"  II  ere  a  tout  9a,  vous  savez,"  she  apolo- 
gized, dropping  at  once  into  the  broadest  ver- 
nacular. Then,  as  if  to  make  up  for  any  light- 
ness, she  told  of  a  Belgian  priest  v^^honi  she 
had  heard  preaching  at  Ste.  Anne  de  Beaupre, 
"  la  Bonne  Ste.  Anne,"  while  on  a  pilgrimage 
during  the  previous  summer.  "He  told  us  how 
there  was  once  a  poor  woman,  very  tired  and 
in  great  trouble,  who  came  with  her  little  boy 
to  ask  help  from  la  sainte  vierge,  and  as  she 
prayed  before  the  Mother  and  the  Child,  her 
little  one  grew  tired  and  restless  and  pulled  at 
her  skirt,  and  cried  to  be  taken  home,  so  that 
the  poor  woman  could  not  make  her  vows  as 
her  heart  desired. 

"  So  she  said,  '  O  most  Holy  Virgin,  Thou 
too  art  a  mother,  and  knowest  what  children 
are.  I  have  much  to  ask  yet.  Wilt  Thou  not 
let  Thy  little  one  come  down  and  play  with, 
my  Jean  until  I  can  tell  Thee  all  my  pain  V 

"  Her  child  ceased  his  troubling,  and  when 
she  had  finished  her  prayers,  she  looked  beside 
her,  and  there  were  the  two  children  silent  to- 
gether, and  she  was  afraid,  for  she  could  not 

195 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

tell  her  Jean  from  the  infant  Jesus.  But  she 
felt  that  the  Virgin  would  know,  and  the  little 
Jesus  would  answer  the  voice  of  His  Mother. 
So  she  prayed  Her  to  call  Her  own,  and  evpn 
as  she  pra^^ed,  the  little  Jesus  flew  to  His  place 
in  His  Mother's  arms,  and  the  poor  woman 
went  home  with  her  child,  leaving  all  her  pain 
safe  in  the  keeping  of  la  bonne  sainte  vierge." 

Xavier  sighed  with  evident  satisfaction  when 
the  story  ended.  The  darkness  had  now  passed, 
and  the  lamp  had  paled  in  the  glory  of  the 
evening. 

We  all  rose,  and  gathering  up  our  things 
passed  out  into  the  little  rain-swept  garden; 
its  sloping  beds  were  cut  by  deep  furrows,  but 
every  flower  shone  glorious  and  refreshed  after 
the  storm. 

When  we  reached  the  gate  we  turned  and 
looked  back  at  the  towering  mass  of  rock,  still 
wet  and  glistening,  its  every  cleft  and  cranny 
filled  with  brilliant  fern  and  moss.  These, 
with  the  white  cottage  at  its  foot,  added  to 
its  sombre  depth  of  colour,  and  the  suggestion 
of  human  life  in  such  close  touch  with  the 
immensity  of  nature  strongly  increased  the 
sense  of  its  awful  grandeur. 
196 


MON    ROCHER 

Louise  half  shuddered  as  she  exclaimed, 
"What  a  terrible  rock !" 

"  Ah,  mon  rocher  !"  said  our  hostess,  and  her 
voice  was  tender,  almost  reverential,  as  she 
spoke,  "My  Rock,"  and  then  a  little  pause. 
"Madame,"  she  resumed,  quietly,  "do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  have  something  ever  beside 
you  to  look  up  to  ? — I  am  never  greater  than 
My  Rock. 

"  It  shelters  me  from  the  storm  in  winter 
and  from  the  heat  in  summer.  It  provides 
food  for  my  cow  and  my  sheep,  it  gives  wood 
for  my  kitchen,  and  I  know  every  step  of  its 
path  by  day  or  night.  From  its  top  I  can  look 
out  on  all  I  lived  in  once,  but  at  its  foot  I  am 
always  in  peace.  Ah,  mon  rocher !  ISTo  one 
can  know  Avhat  it  has  been  to  me." 

The  canoe  was  lifted  back  into  the  river 
once  more,  and  Xavier  patiently  awaited  our 
coming. 

With  o-rateful  farewells  we  left  our  fair- 
haired,  blQe-e3^ed  friend  on  the  shore,  and,  as 
we  sped  down  the  rapid  current,  we  carried 
with  us  something  of  the  peace  we  had  found 
in  that  humble  cottage  under  the  shadow  of 
the  mighty  rock. 

197 


THE   INDISCRETION   OF   GEOSSE 
BOULE 


THE   INDISCRETION   OF   GROSSE 
BOULE 

LD  Ozias  Vadeboncoeur  -was  rich ;  he 
was  also  respectable,  and  for  years 
had  held  office  as  churchwarden,  one 
of  the  "anciens  raarguilliers,"  of  his  native 
parish  of  Ste.  Madeleine  de  Fontarabie.  In 
early  youth  he  had  been  looked  up  to  by  the 
daughters  and  sought  after  by  their  mothers 
as  the  most  desirable  "  parti  "  among  all  the 
young  farmers  of  the  parish,  but  had  kept  his 
freedom  and  figured  as  '"le  beau  cavalier," 
until  at  length  captured  by  the  masterful 
graces  of  Demoiselle  Petronille  Deschambault, 
who,  during  their  thirty  years  of  married  life, 
had  not  only  held  his  wayward  fancies  in 
check,  but  sternly  discouraged  any  allusion  to 
what  old  Ozias  fondly  imagined  had  been  a 
"  jeunesse  orageuse." 
He  had  every  reason  to  be  happy:  Petronille 

201 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

was  capable  and  managing,  he  was  a  wealthier 
man  now  than  his  father  ever  had  been ;  tliat 
he  was  as  illiterate  and  as  credulous  was  no 
drawback  in  his  eyes.  Thanks  to  the  rigid 
rule  of  his  wife  his  vagrom  fancies  had  never 
taken  form  suflBcient  to  awaken  the  breath  of 
scandal  against  his  fair  fame,  which,  having 
been  built  up  about  him  by  his  wife's  unceas- 
ing watchfulness,  had  now  become  the  object 
of  his  own  most  jealous  solicitude. 

Young  Ozias,  the  one  late  blossom  of  this 
respectable  union,  was  now  about  twentj^-two. 
He  had  inherited  his  father  s  good  looks,  much 
of  his  easy-going,  pleasure-loving  disposition, 
but,  alas!  under  the  stern,  almost  Puritanical, 
rule  of  his  mother  he  dared  give  but  little 
more  expression  to  his  natural  bent  than  did 
his  father.  Consequently,  when  3'oung  Ozias 
returned  for  his  yearl}'-  vacation  from  the 
College  of  St.  Mathias,  where  all  the  youth  of 
Ste.  Madeleine  de  Fontarabie  were  educated, 
he  confessed  none  of  his  peccadilloes,  not  even 
the  most  innocent,  to  either  father  or  mother, 
and  least  of  all  did  he  ever  breathe  a  word  of 
the  longing  which  consumed  him  to  see  some- 
what of  the  Great  World.  That  would  have 
202 


INDISCRETION    OF    GROSSE    BOULE 

alarmed  even  bis  father ;  he  knew  what  a 
monstrous  wicked  place  it  was,  and  a  scandal, 
even  in  another  generation — Heaven  forbid  ! 

So  Ozias,  like  a  good,  wise,  and  patient  son, 
sat  by  the  fireplace  and  bided  his  time. 

His  waiting  brought  him  this.  He  was  ac- 
customed every  Saturday  night  to  read  aloud 
to  his  parents  such  news  of  the  outer  world  as 
the  editor  of  La  Sentinelle  de  Fontarabie  held 
would  interest  the  subscribers  to  his  weekly 
paper.  Next  to  the  local  items,  "  Les  Faits 
Divers,"  which  naturally  held  their  attention 
first,  came  the  local  politics,  and  then  any 
miscellaneous  padding ;  as  for  the  foreign  in- 
telligence, it  was  not  intelligible  at  all — at  least, 
to  the  household  of  Ozias  Vadeboncosur. 

One  night,  as  he  was  reading  to  his  father — 
poor  Madame  Petronille  was  confined  to  bed 
with  an  obstinate  rheumatism  which  had  made 
her  a  prisoner  for  weeks — young  Ozias  came 
across  an  article  telling  of  the  marvellous  re- 
sults obtained  by  a  man  in  New  York  as  a 
dog-trainer.  The  article  was  suiiiciently  men- 
dacious as  it  stood,  but  Ozias,  who  was  always 
open  to  a  humourous  suggestion  and  took  de- 
light in  testing  his  father's  credulity  to  the 
203 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

utmost,  was  moved  to  embellish  and  i-ound 
out  the  tale  until  tlic  canine  education  was 
completed  by  the  mastery  of  human  speech. 

The  old  man  said  nothing,  not  even  express- 
ing surprise  when  the  climax  was  reached,  and 
Ozias  feared  that  for  once  he  had  pushed  au- 
dacity too  far  and  his  coup  had  failed.  He 
glanced  apprehensively  at  his  father  and  saw 
him  staring  at  the  bright  damper-hole  of  the 
stove,  smoking,  with  hard,  sharp  "poufs  "  from 
his  tightly  closed  lips.  The  old  man  was 
thinking.  Suddenly  he  asked  Ozias  to  read 
the  article  over  once  more. 

Ozias,  enkindled  by  unexpected  success,  be- 
gan anew,  and  if  he  altered  in  any  partic- 
ular from  his  first  performance  he  was  too 
true  an  artist  to  fall  into  further  exaggera- 
tion. 

And  now  the  story  is  told  in  broken  English. 
Why,  is  not  perfectly  clear — but  this  is  a  mat- 
ter of  history : 

Den  de  ol'  man  say  to  Ozias :  "  Ozias,  w'at 
you  t'ink  of  all  dose  ?" 

An'  Ozias,  'e  say  :  ^  Fadder,  I  t'ink  dat's  a 
smart  feller,  an'  no  mistake." 
204 


INDISCRETION    OF    GROSSE    BOULE 

An'  de  fadder  say :  "  You  'spose  dat's  all 
true  ?     Pas  de  blague  V 

An'  Ozias,  'e  say  :  "  If  'e's  on  de  paper,  'e 
mus'  be  true.  Me,  I'll  jus'  as  soon  b'lieve 
nodding,  as  not  b'lieve  w'at's  on  de  paper.  If 
dat's  on  de  paper,  'e  mus'  be  true !" 

You  see  'ow  Ozias  fool  de  ol'  man  ? 

Well,  de  ol'  man  say  nodding  more  dat 
night ;  'e  jus'  fix  up  de  fire,  knock  out  'is  pipe, 
an'  pick  up  'is  can'le,  an'  'e  go  off  for  bed.  An' 
Ozias  sit  dere  for  little  w'ile,  an'  'e  t'ink  w'at  a 
fine  joke  'e  was  put  on  de  ol'  man,  an'  'ow  'e 
was  make  everybody  laugh  w'en  'e  tell  'is 
blague.  But  Ozias  'e  never  was  tell  dat  joke 
like  'e  t'ink;  for  de  nex'  day  de  ol'  man  was 
take  'im  on  one  side,  an'  'e  say :  "  Ozias,  I 
s'pose  dat  man  was  make  plenty  money  w^id 
learn  de  dog  for  speak,  hein  ?  'Ow  much  you 
s'pose  'e  charge  ?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno,  fadder,"  Ozias  say;  "  p'r'aps 
we  see  some  more  on  de  paper  nex'  week. 
Wat  for  you  wan'  to  know  ?" 

"  Well,  I  was  say  to  mj'self  :  '  s'pose  now  'e 
'ave  de  good  dog,  not  one  of  dose  little,  curly- 
tail,  yellow  feller,  but  one  good,  big,  sensible 
dog— like  our  Grosse  Boule  ' — eh,  Ozias?" 
205 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"Eh,  fadder?" 

"  Yes,  Ozias !" 

"  AV'at !" 

"  Yes." 

"  An'  learn  'ira  for  speak  ?" 

"  Yes  !" 

"An'  make  money  wid  'im?" 

"Yes!     Yes!" 

"  Fadder !  You're  de  mos'  clever  man  I 
ever  see !  Fadder,  you  give  me  de  money,  an' 
I  go  on  New  York  myself  wid  Grosse  Boule, 
an'  I  stay  dere  wid  'im  till  de  man  learn  'im 
for  speak,  I  don'  care  'ow  long  dat  take." 

Well,  dat  ol'  fool  'e  was  so  please  wid  de  non- 
sense 'e  make  wid  dose  story,  dat  'e  don'  care 
for  M'me  Petronille— de  poor  woman  can'  stir 
on  'er  bed,  or  nodding  like  dat  don'  'appen — 
an'  Ozias  'ave  de  price  for  de  lesson  all  fix  up 
b}'^  de  nex'  week,  an'  not  more  nor  four,  five 
days  after  'e  was  start  off  wid  Grosse  Boule, 
an'  de  ol'  man  was  fix  up  wid  M'me  Petronille 
de  bes'  'e  was  able,  an'  'e  sit  dere  an'  'e  count 
de  money  'e  was  make  w'en  Ozias  was  come 
back  wid  Grosse  Boule. 

Ozias  'e  was  not  able  for  write  much  'ow 
Grosse  Boule  was  learn,  for  de  ol'  man  don' 
206 


INDISCRETION    OF    GROSSE    BOULE 

read  any,  an'  de  letter  was  all  read  to  'im  by 
Marie-Rose-Deliraa  Paquet,  w'at  was  stay  on 
de  'ouse  w'en  M'me  Petronille  was  sick — an' 
so  Ozias  'e  jus'  say :  "  Everyfing  is  go  for  de 
bes'  ";  or  p'r'aps  e'  say,  ''  I  am  work  at  dat 
business  all  de  time,"  or  soraet'ing  like  dat, 
an'  de  ol'  man  was  satisfy,  an'  Deliraa  she  can' 
understan'  w'y  'e  make  'er  read  dose  part 
many  time. 

But,  bymby,  'e  get  tire'  for  send  Ozias  so 
much  money ;  p'r'aps  dat's  more  nor  two  mont's 
'e  was  away  now,  an'  at  de  las'  'e  make  Deli  ma 
"write  for  Ozias  to  come  'ome,  right  away.  So 
she  write,  an'  I  guess  dat  letter  w'en  'e  get  it 
make  Ozias  more  bus}^  nor  'e  ever  Avas  wid 
Grosse  Boule !  But  'e  mus'  come  'ome ;  'e 
know  'e  can'  fool  de  ol'  man  no  longer.  So  'e 
start. 

De  ol'  man  was  drive  down  on  de  wharf  for 
meet  de  Montreal  boat,  an'  de  firs'  person  Ozias 
was  see  w'en  'e  walk  down  de  gang-plank  was 
'is  fadder — an'  de  very  firs'  word  de  ol'  man 
say  w'en  'e  meet  'im  was:  "Were's  Grosse 
Boule?" 

Ozias  say  ver'  quick:  "Don'  say  nodding, 
fadder  !     Wait  till  we  was  on  de  charette." 

207 


IN    OLD    FRANCE   AND     NEW 

An'  do  ol'  man  don'  say  nodding.  An'  day 
climb  in  on  do  chare tte  an'  start  for  'ome. 

Den  de  ol'  man  can'  wait  no  longer,  an'  'e 
hax  some  more  :  "  Well,  Ozias,  w'ere's  Grosse 
Boule?" 

An'  den  Ozias  say :  "  Now,  f adder,  I'll  tol' 
you.  Well,  me  an'  Grosse  Boule  go  on  IsTew 
York  like  you  know,  an'  we  fin'  dat  man  easy 
'nough.  An'  dat  raan'e  look  Grosse  Boule  all 
over,  open  'is  mout',  feel  'is  ches',  an'  'e  say  'e 
never  was  see  no  dog  more  better  dan  Grosse 
Boule  for  learn  to  speak.  An'  'e  bax  w'at 
way  'e'll  learn  'im  for  speak — French  way, 
Anglish  way  ?  An'  I'll  tell  'im  right  off, 
'  Never  min'  de  Anglish  way,  you  learn  dat 
dog  de  French  way  ;  my  ol'  fadder  'e  not  talk 
no  Anglish  an'  I  don'  w^an'  dat  dog  for  say 
nodding  my  ol'  fadder  not  understan'.'  You 
see,  fadder,  s'pose  I  'ave  to  go  'way  from  'ome 
sometime,  I  wan'  dat  dog  so's  you'll  speak  wid 
'im  jus'  like  wid  me." 

An'  de  ol'  man  was  so  please  wid  dat  fool- 
ishness he  put  'es  'an'  on  Ozias  knee  an'  give 
'im  little  squeeze. 

"  Well,  fadder,  jus'  so  soon's  dat  man  know 
w'at  1  want  'e  start,  an'  we  all  begin  for  work. 
308 


INDISCRETION    OF    GROSSE    BOULE 

Every  day  Grosse  Boule  an'  me  was  dere  at 
seven-a-clock,  an'  we  work  widout  never  stop 
till  dinner.  An'  all  de  afternoon  I  was  make 
Grosse  Boule  study  de  lesson  dat  man  make 
'im  on  de  morning.  Bagosli !  every  night  we 
was  so  tire',  we  go  to  sleep  so  soon  's  we  eat 
our  supper.  ]Srever  nodding  but  dat,  every 
day  an'  de  'ole  day  long.  But  Grosse  Boule  'e 
know  w'at  was  expect  of  'im,  an'  'e  never  say 
nodding;  jus'  work,  work,  work,  till  'e  make 
me  tire'  for  look  at  'im.  An'  sometime  w'en 
I  say,  '  Grosse  Boule,  come  on !  Let's  go  on 
de  street  an'  see  de  girl!'  I  jus'  say  dat  for 
fun,  fadder,  you  know,  jus'  for  see  w'at  'e  say. 
'E  look  on  me  wid  'is  fore'ead  all  wrinkle  up 
an'  'e  say  :  '  Ozias,  I'm  'shame'  on  you  !  Wat 
Ma'am  Petronille  say  for  'ear  you  talk  like 
dose  ?  Go  on  by  yourself !  Me,  I  don'  spen' 
de  ol'  man's  money  wid  no  foolishness  like 
dat !' — an'  'e  open  'is  book  an'  'e  begin  on  'is 
lesson  some  more." 

An'  den  dat  ol'  fool  of  a  fadder  was  please 
some  more,  an'  'e  hax :  "  Grosse  Boule  was 
read  on  'is  book  ?" 

An'  dat  effronte  Ozias,  'e  say  :  "  Oh  yes, 
fadder!  Dat  was  de  greates'  pity  w'at  you 
o  209 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

hax  me  for  come  -omc.  Grosse  Boule  'e  was 
jus'  begin  for  read  'is  book  good  de  las'  week, 
an'  we  was  jus'  go  to  begin  'im  on  de  newspa- 
per.    But  never  min' ! 

"Well,  w'en  I  read  de  letter  Delima  was 
write  to  come  'ome,  Grosse  Boule  'e  was  cr}'-. 
Wen  'e  say  good-bye  to  dat  man,  dat  man  'e 
say  :  '  Cheer  up,  Grosse  Boule  !  You  be  good 
dog,  an'  you  make  much  pleasurement  for  de 
ol'  man  w'en  you  get  'ome.' 

"Well,  den,  me  an'  Grosse  Boule  we  start 
for  'ome,  an'  nobody  catch  me  say  one  word 
wid  'im  all  de  way.  Sometime  somebody  pat 
'is  'ead  an'  hax  me  w'at  kin'  of  dog  'e  was,  an' 
talk  much  about  'im ;  an'  no  matter  w'at  dey 
was  say,  Grosse  Boule  never  say  nodding,  'cept 
sometime  'e  wink  at  me  an'  I'll  near  split  my- 
self I'll  want  so  much  for  laugh. 

"Bymby  we  get  on  Montreal,  an'  I  go 
down  on  de  boat,  an'  we  start  at  seven-a-clock; 
an'  w'en  de  supper-bell  ring  I  say  to  Grosse 
Boule:  'Now,  Grosse  Boule,  you  stay  qui't 
'ere  an'  I'll  bring  you  soraet'ing  on  my  pocket 
for  eat  w'en  I  come  back.' 

"Den  I  go  an'  eat  my  supper,  an'  I  come 
back  wid  plenty  in  my  pocket,  an'  we  sit  on 

310 


INDISCRETION    OF    GROSSE    BOULE 

de  dark  corner,  an'  after  'e  was  satisfy  I  say : 
'Well,  Grosse  Boule,  I'm  glad  get  'omo,  me!' 

"  '  Me  too !'  'e  say. 

"Den  I  say  :  '  Who  you're  de  mos'  lonesome 
for  all  de  time  we  was  away,  Grosse  Eonle  V    ' 

"Den  'e  say  :  'Me?  I'm  de  mos'  lonesome 
for  de  ol'  man.' 

"Fadder,  w'en  Grosse  Boule  say  dat,  I  was 
glad.  Dat  show  me  de  dog  'ave  de  good  'eart, 
like  you  was  always  say. 

"I  was  so  please,  fadder,  I  hax  'im  some 
more :  '  W'at  for  you  was  so  lonesome  for  de 
ol'  man,  Grosse  Boule  V 

"An  'e  say :  '  Oh !  de  ol'  man  make  me 
plenty  joke  very  often.' 

"W'en  'e  say  dat,  I  was  w^onder,  I  never 
'ear  you  make  no  joke  wid  Grosse  Boule,  an' 
I'm  not  sure  w'at  'e  mean.  So  I  say :  '  'Ow 
was  dat,  Grosse  Boule  ?  W'at  joke  my  fadder 
was  make  wid  you  V 

"An'  den,  fadder,  'e  say :  '  Ozias,  you  re- 
member w'en  de  modder  was  lay  up  wid  de 
rheumatism  V 

" '  Yes.' 

" '  An'  we  get  Delima  for  come  an'  do  de 
'ouse  V 

211 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"  '  Yes.' 

" '  Marie-Eose-Delima  Paquet?' 

"  '  Yes.' 

"  '  "Well,  man y's  de  night  I  lay  be'ind  de 
stove,  an'  I  laugh  fit  for  split  myself  for  'ear 
de  ol'  man  talk  foolish  wid  Delima !  Ho !  ho! 
ho!  I  tol'  you,  Ozias,  dat  was  de  bes'  joke 
de  ol'  man  ever  make  on  all  'is  life!  Ore 
baptome !' 

"An',  fadder,  w'en  I  'ear  Grosse  Boule,  w'at 
you  trus'  so  much,  say  dose  lie,  I  was  so  mad  I 
forget  about  all  de  money  we  was  spen'  on 
'im,  an'  I  jus'  get  up,  an'  I  take  'im  by  de 
t'roat,  an'  I  t'row  'im  on  de  river !" 

An'  den  de  ol'  man  give  'imself  little  shake, 
an'  'e  say:  "  Ozias,  my  son,  you  done  right!" 


MON    COMPEKE    MELCIIIOR 


DE   LITTLE   MODDER 

LA  MESSE  DE  MINUIT 

MALOUIN 

JOHNNY   RAWSON 

P'TF   BAROUETTE 

LA  CABANE 

MARIE 


DE    LITTLE     MODDER 


DE    LITTLE    MODDER 

^E  ol'  Zacliarie  Daoust,  w'at  was  marry 
wid  la  tante  Lisa,  'e  say  dat  de  little 
Josophte  was  de  bigges'  little  ^voman 
w'at  ever  'e  was  know — an'  dat  was  my  mod- 
der. 

Wen  Mam'zelle  Laure  was  born,  an'  Ma- 
dame de  Bercy  was  die  two  day  after,  dat  was 
for  my  gran'modder  w'at  M'sieu'  Georges 
sen' ;  an'  because  she  was  de  ol'  servant  an' 
de  ol'  frien'  wid  de  family,  she  Avas  go  up  to 
de  manoir  wid  'cr  little  Josephte  on  'er  arm 
de  minute  do  news  of  de  trouble  was  come. 

So  de  gran'modder  was  bring  up  dose  two 
baby  togedder,  an'  M'sieu'  Georges  'e  was  glad 
for  'ave  de  Little  Modder  dere  for  play  wid 
Mam'zelle. 

But  bymby  after  w'ile,  Mam'zelle  was  grow 
up,  an'  de  time  w^as  come  w'en  she  mus'  go  on 
de  convent ;  an'  w'en  she's  go,  de  gran'modder 

317 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

was  sen'  'er  little  Josephte  for  live  wid  la 
tante  Lisa  on  do  village;  but  every  summer 
she  go  back  on  do  manoir  for  live  wid  Mam'- 
zelle  Laure,  an'  wait  on  'er  w'en  she's  'ome. 

De  Little  Modder  she  was  grow  up  all  dat 
time  too ;  an'  she  was  grow  up  ver'  pretty  girl, 
everybody  say  dat  w'at  know  'er  on  dose  time, 
an'  /'U  t'ink  she  was  keep  pretty  ever  sence ; 
but  she  don'  'ave  no  cavalier,  like  de  odder 
girl — she  jus'  keep  wid  'erself,  an'  Mam'zelle, 
an'  La  Tante. 

Dere  was  de  young  Malouin,  w'at  was  de 
son  to  de  ol'  Malouin  w'at  keep  de  'otel,  an' 
was  de  riches'  man  on  Ste.  Philomene — 'e  was 
bodder  'er  plenty,  but  she  jus'  'ate  'im,  an'  do 
all  w'at  she  can  for  keep  out  'is  way.  Nobody 
know  w'y  dat  was.  But  all  de  time  La  Tante 
'ave  le  p'ti'  neveu  call'  Noel,  w'at  make  'er 
de  visit  every  year,  an'  w'en  de  Little  Modder 
was  go  for  live  wid  'er,  de  one  visit  bring  de 
odder  visit,  an'  de  nex'  visit  bring  some  more, 
an'  bymby,  La  Tante  she  laugh  an'  she  say, 
"'Ow  dat  was,  Noel,  you  got  so  fon'  de  ol' 
tante  ?"  An'  'e  laugh,  an'  de  Little  Modder 
she  laugh,  an'  La  Tante  she  laugh  mos'  of  all, 
an'  so  'e  arrive  dat  de  visit  end  on  de  weddin', 

218 


DE    LITTLE    M  ODDER 

an'  w'en  dat  come  Mam'zelle  Laure  she  was 
glad  like  de  Little  Modder  'erself.  An'  de  fad- 
der  'ave  save  de  money,  an'  'e  buy  de  little 
farm,  an'  'e  don'  go  'way  on  de  shanty  some 
more. 

Soon  after  dat  M'siea'  Georges  was  got  ol' 
ver'  fas' ;  an',  widoiit  be  sick,  'e  was  die  one  day 
soon  after  Mam'zelle  Laure  was  marry  wid  de 
Anglish  Captain  Lawless.  An'  de  Captain  'e 
lef  de  army,  an'  'im  an'  Mam'zelle  live  on  de 
manoir,  an'  everyt'ing  look  like  'e  was  go  on 
widout  no  more  trouble  an'  no  more  change. 

De  Captain  'e  was  fine  big  man,  w'at  look 
like  de  soldier  all  de  time,  'cep'  w'en  'e  laugh 
wid  Mam'zelle ;  an'  'e  'ave  de  black  'air  w'at 
curl  all  roun'  'is  'ead,  an'  dere  never  was  no- 
body more  'appy  wid  'is  wife  nor  'e  was  wid 
Mam'zelle.  'E  only  t'ink  for  'er,  an'  dey  was 
wid  each  odder  de  'ole  time,  on  de  'ouse  an' 
de  outside  too  ;  an'  de  Little  Modder  was  al- 
ways say  de}''  be  togedder  like  dat  so  much 
'cause  no  baby  never  come,  an'  dat  was  like 
dey  was  all  'lone  on  de  worl'  by  demself. 

But  de  people  on  de  village  an'  de  habitants 
dey  don'  like  de  Captain.  Dat's  not  'cause  'e 
219 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

■was  Anglish ;  dere  was  de  odder  Anglish  peo- 
ple w'at  live  on  St.  Eustache  an'  Terrebonne; 
but  'e  can'  speak  wid  de  hal)itaiits  like  dose 
Anglish  w'at  was  always  live  on  do  country. 
An'  'cause  'e  never  was  speak  de  French  good 
dey  begin  for  say  'e  was  proud  ;  an'  dat's  de 
t'ing  w'at  de  people  w'at  live  on  de  country 
'ate  de  mos'  of  all.  But  we  don'  see  dat ;  'e 
was  always  'ave  de  kin'  word  for  de  Little 
Modder,  an'  'e  speak  wid  me,  an'  'e  laugh  on 
my  name,  Melchior,  an'  sometime  'e  give  me 
de  copper.  But  de  people  w'at  don'  see  'im, 
dey  say  'e  was  proud,  an'  dat  was  not  de  trut', 
but  'e  was  bad  for  de  Captain  all  de  same. 

An'  dat  summer  dere  was  de  talk  begin, 
nobody  know  'ow,  dat  de  Anglish  was  try  to 
take  all  de  farm  from  de  habitants,  an'  dey 
was  wan'  for  sen'  all  de  French  people  out  de 
country.  An'  de  stranger  come  from  Mont- 
real an'  from  de  State',  some  French  an' 
some  Anglish,  an'  on  de  night  de  men  all  go 
down  on  de  assemblee.  An'  de  one  w'at  al- 
ways speak  de  mos'  wid  every  one,  an'  always 
come  for  tell  de  people  for  go  on  de  assemblee, 
was  de  young  Malouin. 
230 


DE    LITTLE    M ODDER 

An'  de  Little  Modeler,  like  all  de  res'  de 
women,  was  not  like  dat,  an'  she  tell  de  lad- 
der 'ow  de  young  Malouin  was  bad  on  de  in- 
side, no  matter  w'at  'e  say,  an'  she  try  all  she 
can  for  keep  'ira  on  de  'ouse.  But  de  young 
Malouin  was  make  like  'e  was  big  frien'  wid 
de  fadder,  an'  'e  tell  'im  lies,  an'  'e  always  got 
'im  on  de  assemblee.  Den  'e  lend  'im  de  mon- 
ey w'at  de  Little  Modder  say  dey  don'  wan', 
an'  de  fadder  'e  give  de  hypotheqne  on  de 
farm.  No  matter  'ow  'ard  de  Little  Modder 
try,  de  3"oung  Malouin  Avas  more  strong  nor 
'er,  an'  de  fadder  always  go  wid  'im — an'  all  de 
trouble  come  dat  way. 

All  dat  fall  dere  was  nobody  work  on  de 
fiel',  only  de  women  ;  de  men  was  always  busy 
on  somet'ing  else  ;  an'  more  stranger  was  come 
t' rough  de  conn  try,  an'  every  night  de  assem- 
blee was  go  on,  sometime  on  de  'ouse,  sometime 
on  de  barn,  an'  de  talk  grow  more  strong,  an' 
never  stop.  An'  dey  say  'ow  somet'ing  will 
arrive  soon,  an'  'ow  nobody  will  be  poor  no 
more,  an'  'ow  everybody  will  be  boss  like  de 
Anglish.  An'  on  mos'  every  'ouse  dere  was  de 
new  gun,  or  else  de  ole  one  was  fix'  up. 

An'  de  young  Malouin,  dey  was  call'  'im 

221 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

Captain  now,  all  de  time  'c  was  never  lef  de 
fadder ;  an'  de  Little  Modder  she  don'  try  no 
more — she  jus'  'ave  to  wait  an'  see  w'at  arrive. 

One  niirlit  de  fadder  was  not  come  'ome  till 
de  mornin',  an'  dere  'e  fin'  de  Little  Modder 
was  wait  for  'im,  wid  'er  face  all  w'ite,  like 
she  was  get  ol'  on  dose  day  an'  night  w'at 
go  so  fas',  an'  was  long  like  de  year  too. 
An'  w'en  'e  see  'er  face  like  dat,  'e  kiss  'er,  an' 
'e  sa3%  "  My  poor  Joseph te,  dat  won'  be  long 
time  now  w'en  I'll  be  wid  you  like  before." 
An'  'e  was  so  tire'  'e  lie  down  on  de  bed,  an.' 
'e  go  for  sleep. 

But  'e's  not  sleep  ver'  good,  an'  bymby  'e 
begin  for  speak  soraet'ing,  an'  I'll  see  de  Lit- 
tle Modder  get  w'ite  like  she  was  w'en  'e  come 
on  de  'ouse,  an'  she  say,  "  Melchior,  go  on  de 
stable  an'  see  ef  de  'en  was  la}'^  some  egg  " — 
an'  I'll  go. 

An'  dat  day  w'en  'e  begin  for  get  dark,  de 
fadder  put  on  'es  capot,  an'  'e  take  down  'es 
gun,  an'  'e  not  look  on  de  modder,  an'  'e  don' 
say  nodding;  but  w'en  'e  pass  on  de  door,  'e 
turn  roun'  an'  'e  come  back,  an'  'e  kiss  'er  an' 
me — an'  den  e'  go. 

After  w'ile  de  Little  Modder  she  say, 
222 


DE    LITTLE    M ODDER 

"Come,  Melchior,  'ere's  de  supper;"  an'  den 
she  fix  me  for  bed,  an'  I'll  say  de  prayer  wid 
'er,  an'  de  little  song  w'at  I'll  be  always  say : 

"Je  mets  ma  confiance, 

Vierge,  en  votre  secours  ; 
Servez  moi  de  defense ; 
Prenez  soin  de  mes  jours." 

An'  she  cover  me  up  on  de  bed,  an'  she  kiss 
me  an'  kiss  me,  an'  tell  me  on  de  mornin',  ef 
she  not  be  dere,  for  go  down  on  la  tante  Lisa 
an'  wait  for  'er,  an'  she  take  'er  big  blue  cloak 
— an'  she  go  too. 

I'll  be  mos'  eight  year  ol'  den,  an'  Tl\  not 
be  'fraid,  me;  I'll  jus'  go  for  sleep. 

An'  w'en  I'll  sleep,  de  Little  Modder  was 
go  so  fas'  she  can  on  de  manoir;  an'  she  was 
not  go  by  de  road,  but  t'rougli  -de  fi.el',  an' 
'cause  de  firs'  snow  was  come  she  'ave  to  run 
'long  by  de  fence  an'  be'in'  de  bushes,  an' 
bymby  she  pass  onder  de  big  tree  w'at  go  all 
de  way  up  on  de  front  of  de  'ouse.  An'  she 
open  de  door  sof,  an'  she  pass  on  de  'all  wid- 
out  meet  wid  nobody,  an'  she  come  on  de  big 
room,  an'  dere  de  Captain  an'  Mam'zelle  Laure 
was  sit  on  de  fire,  an'  'e  was  read  to  'er  wid 
de  book  on  'es  'an'. 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

De  Captain  'e  jump  up,  but  de  Little  Mod- 
eler hoi'  up  'er  'an',  an'  she  shut  de  door,  an' 
she  tell  deni  'ow  de  people  was  come  on  de 
manoir  dat  night  for  get  de  gun  an'  de  pow- 
der w'at  dey  say  de  Captain  'ave  on  de  cellar. 
An'  de  Captain  'e  laugh,  an'  'e  tell  'er  she  was 
de  goose  for  be  'f raid  wid  dose  story  ;  but  den 
she  tell  'im  'ow  she  know,  an  w'at  dey  say 
'bout  'im  an'  Mam'zelle,  an'  'ow  she  was  not 
meet  wid  any  of  de  dog  w'en  she  come  up. 
An'  den  de  Captain  'is  face  got  black  an'  'ard  ; 
but  w'en  Mam'zelle  go  over  on  'im  an'  try  an' 
put  'er  'an'  roun'  'is  neck,  'e  pass  'is  arm  roun' 
'er,  like  'e  'old  'er  safe,  an'  'is  face  was  sof 
some  more,  an  'e  say,  "  Joseph te,  you  was  de 
brave  girl,  an'  I'll  t'ank  you  for  come." 

An'  den  'e  take  Mam'zelle  on  one  side,  an' 
'e  speak  wid  'er  long  time,  an'  she  cr}^  an'  try 
for  get  'im  for  change  w'at  'e  say,  an'  de  Lit- 
tle Modder  stan'  dere,  an'  watch  de  needle  on 
de  clock  dat  go  on  an'  on,  an'  'er  'eart  jump 
every  time  w'en  she  'ear  de  noise  outside,  an' 
she  make  de  prayer  dat  Mam'zelle  not  be  fool- 
ish, an'  at  de  las'  de  Captain  turn,  an'  'e  say, 
"Josephte,  my  wife  mus'  go  on  Montreal  to- 
night.   You  will  go  wid  her.    Sen'  Jacques  to 

2^4 


DE    LITTLE    MODDER 

me,  an'  tell  Charles  to  put  de  two  'orse  on  cle 
little  wagon." 

But  de  Little  Modder  say,  "  Dat  won'  do. 
Captain.  De  road's  not  safe !  De  people  al- 
ways be  out  on  de  night  now."  Den  she  say 
'ow  ef  'e  was  trus'  'er  wid  Mam'zelle  Laure, 
she  'ave  de  plan,  an'  she  tell  'im  w'at  dat  was. 

Den  dey  all  go  on  de  bedroom,  an'  dere  on 
de  dark  dey  dress  Mam'zelle  wid  de  warm 
clo'es,  an'  over  all  dey  put  de  long  blue  cloak, 
like  de  Little  Modder,  an'  dey  take  something 
for  h'eat,  an'  some  wine,  an'  den  de  Captain  open 
de  window  ver'  quiet,  au'  'e  lif  Mam'zelle  out, 
an'  de  Little  Modder  she  come  be'in'.  Den  de 
Captain  'ol'  Mam'zelle  to  'im,  an'  'e  say  some- 
t'ing,  an'  'e  kiss  'er,  an'  'e  put  'er  'an'  on  de 
'an'  of  de  Little  Modder,  an'  'e  say,  "  Dere, 
Josephte,  you  take  my  life  wid  you,  too!" — 
an'  dey  go. 

Wen  dey  got  off  from  de  'ouse  dey  go 
t'rough  de  fiel'  for  de  river,  an'  dey  don'  say 
nodding,  jus'  'urry  all  dey  was  able;  but  on  de 
top  of  de  'ill  dey  stop,  an'  dey  look  be'in',  an' 
dey  see  de  light  on  de  window  of  the  de  big 
room  jus'  like  'e  was  shine  before  de  trouble 
come  —  an'  dey  go  on. 
p  225 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

Nobody  meet  wid  dem,  nobody  see  dera  ; 
but  on  de  road  dey  can  'ear  like  de  people  was 
pass.  Wen  dey  get  on  de  river  de  Little 
Modder  lef  Mam'zelle  on  de  bushes,  an'  she 
run  up  de  bank,  an'  byraby  she  come  back,  an' 
she  'ave  de  fadder's  canoe.  Den  she  run  on  de 
bushes  for  Mam'zelle,  an'  she  don'  reach  'er 
before  dej'  'ear  de  gun  go  off  on  de  manoir, 
an'  Mam'zelle  she  look  on  de  Little  Modder 
an'  she  go  for  scream  ;  but  she  only  put  'er 
bot'  'an's  on  'er  'eart  an'  fall  on  'er  knee.  But 
de  Little  Modder  get  'er  on  de  canoe  bymby, 
an'  cover  'er  up  wid  'er  own  cloak,  an'  every 
time  de  gun  go,  Mam'zelle  she  shake  like  she 
was  die.  An'  all  dat  night  dey  was  go  down, 
down — an'  on  de  mornin'  dey  see  de  church  at 
Repentigny. 

De  Little  Modder  Avas  'fraid  for  stay  dere, 
an'  w'en  de  Cure  say  'e  can  sen'  dem  on  de 
City,  no  matter  if  dey  bot'  was  sick  wid  de 
col'  an'  de  night  w'at  was  pas',  dey  bot'  say 
dey  go,  an'  before  dat  night  dey  was  drive 
on  Montreal — an'  de  Little  Modder  'ave  keep 
'er  promise  to  de  Captain. 

She  was  sick  'erself,  an'  she  can'  get  up  de 

226 


"'she  pit  'er  'and  on  'ek  'eart  and  fall  on  'er  knee'" 


DE    LITTLE    M ODDER 

next  day  ;  but  de  day  after  she  start,  an'  dat 
night  she  go  on  la  tante  Lisa,  w'ere  she  fin' 
rae.  Nobody  h'ax  'er  no  question,  only  La  Tante 
tell  'er  de  Captain  'e's  back  on  de  manoir ;  an' 
w'en  she  'ear  dat  she  start  off  some  more,  an' 
she  go  straight  on  de  manoir,  widout  care  ef 
dey  see  'er  or  ef  dey  don'. 

Wen  she  was  pass  on  de  gate  she  see  de  big 
stone  pos'  was  t'row  down,  but  de  snow  cover 
up  mos'  w'at  was  outside.  But  w'en  she  pass 
on  de  'ouse,  she  see  de  wooden  shutter  was  all 
smash  wid  de  h'axe,  an'  de  front-door  was  lie 
on  de  floor,  an'  dere  was  jus'  de  bar  nail'  'cross. 
She  crawl  onder  de  bar  an'  walk  t'rough  de 
'all,  an'  open  de  door  of  de  big  room  sof ,  an' 
dere  was  de  Captain  sit  on  de  fire  wid  one  arm 
tie  up  an'  'is  'ead  on  'is  'an' ;  an'  de  minute 
'e  'ear  de  door  'e  jump  up,  an'  w'en  'e  see 
de  Little  Modder  stan'  dere,  all  w'ite  an' 
tire'  wid  'er  vo^^age,  'e  can'  speak,  but  she  say, 
"Safe  !"  an'  de  Captain  'e  say, "  T'ank  God !" 

An'  de  Little  Modder  see  de  Captain  was 
change'  on  dose  free  day;  like  'er,  'e  was  grow 
ol'  wid  de  trouble  w'at  was  come.  'E  don'  say 
nodding,  but  'e  jus'  stir  de  fire  so  'e  burn  up 
good,  an'  den  'e  make  de  sign  wid  'is  arm,  an' 

337 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

'e  laugh  w'en  de  Little  Modder  look  on  de  room 
— an'  dere's  no  good  for  tell  de  story. 

Everj^t'ing  was  smash'  an'  break  up ;  de  table 
was  fix  'cross  de  window,  an'  de  chair,  an'  de 
sofa,  an'  de  cushion,  an'  de  paillasse,  an'  de 
clo'es  from  de  bed  w'at  de  Captain  was  pile  on 
de  window  an'  de  door,  was  all  over  de  floor; 
an'  de  picture  of  de  ol'  M'sieu'  Georges  an' 
Mam'zelle  Laure  and  de  family,  some  was  pull 
down,  an'  de  odder  w'at  was  lef  was  all  cut  on 
de  face. 

An'  after  —  de  ol'  Jacques  tell  'er  —  'ow  de 
Captain  was  sen'  de  women  out  de  'ouse  w'en 
de  people  promise'  for  lef  dem  pass,  an'  den  'ow 
de  Captain  an'  Charles  fight- — 'imself,  'e  was 
too  ol'  for  do  nodding  'cep'  load  de  gun.  An' 
'ow  de  Captain  was  shoot  Perreault  de  black- 
smith, an'  some  odder,  too,  and  'ow  'e  was 
near  kill'  'imself  only  for  de  young  Malouin  ; 
an'  'ow  de  young  Malouin  'ave  'im  tie'  up,  an' 
dey  smash  e very t'ing  before  'is  eyes,  an'  'e  sit 
dere  an'  'e  don'  say  nodding,  an'  'is  face  never 
change;  an'  'ow  dey  'unt  forde  powder  an'de 
gun,  an'  don'  fin'  ver'  much.  An'  den  'ow  de}'^ 
go  off  an'  take  de  Captain  on  St.  Isidore ;  but 
'e  get  out  some'ow,  an'  'e  was  jus'  get  back  on 
238 


DE    LITTLE    MODDER 

de  manoir  dat  day,  an'  'e  lin'  only  'im,  de  oP 
Jacques,  w'at  was  lef  on  de  'ouse. 

Den  de  trouble  come  fas' ;  de  fadder  was 
'way  all  de  time,  an'  de  camp  was  make  on  St. 
Benoit  an'  St.  Eustache;  an'  one  day  les 
troupes  was  pass  on  de  road  from  Montreal, 
an'  den  La  Tante  she  come  an'  she  try  for  get 
de  Little  Modder  for  go  wid  'er ;  but  de  Little 
Modder  she  kiss  'er  an'  she  cry,  an'  she  say 
she  was  not  'fraid  for  'erself,  an'  ef  'er  man 
come  'e  mus'  fin'  'er  dere. 

An'  de  day  after  les  troupes  pass'  bad  news 
was  come  from  St.  Eustache,  an'  de  Little 
Modder  she  take  me  an'  go  down  on  de  vil- 
lage, an'  all  de  people  was  do  nodding  but  go 
on  de  church  an'  say  de  prayer  an'  make  des 
voeux ;  an'  w'en  de  news  come  dat  de  Anglish 
was  kill  all  les  patriotes,  some  of  de  people  was 
take  all  dey  can  carry  an'  run  'way  on  de 
bush ;  an'  on  de  church  dey  was  cry  an'  say 
de  prayer  out  loud,  an'  only  de  Cure  was  dere 
for  say  somet'ing.  Wat  'e  was  say  I'll  don' 
know,  but  de  women  don'  cry  no  more ;  an' 
w'en  de  dark  come,  me  an'  de  Little  Modder 
we  go  back  'ome. 

An'  dat  night  she  don'  put  me  on  de  bed. 
239 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

She  sit  on  de  fire,  an'  she  'ol'  me  on  'er  knee. 
An'  on  de  raornin',  w'en  de  light  was  jus'  begin, 
we  'ear  de  noise  like  de  'orse  on  de  road,  an' 
w'en  dey  come  on  our  'ouse  dey  turn  in,  'an 
we  wait,  an'  den  de  knock  come  on  de  door, 
an'  de  door  was  open',  an'  dere  was  de  Cap- 
tain Lawless  wid  'is  cap  on  'is  'an'. 

An'  'e  was  'ol'  de  door  open,  an'  den  two 
soldier  come  on  de  'ouse,  an'  dey  carry  some- 
t'ing.  An'  de  Captain  'e  don'  say  nodding, 
jus'  make  de  sign  wid  'is  'ead,  an'  de  soldier 
move  over  on  de  bed  ;  an'  de  Captain  'e  stan' 
dere  'gains'  de  wall  like  de  man  w'at  was  tire' 
out,  an'  'is  face  was  like  de  face  of  de  ol'  man. 

An'  w'en  de  soldier  go  out,  'e  was  shut  de 
door  sof,  an'  'e  come  over  on  de  Little  Mod- 
der;  an'  I'll  be  'fraid  den,  an'  I'll  'ide  my  face 
on  'er  dress,  an'  I'll  'ear  'im  say,  "My  poor 
Josephte,  you  'ave  save  me  de  living,  an'  I'll 
only  be  able  for  save  your  dead." 

An'  den  de  Captain  'e  go  out,  an'  we  'ear 
de  sleigh  an'  de  'orse  go  oflp  slow,  slow,  down 
de  road,  an'  bymby  everyt'ing  was  qui't  some 
more — an'  me  an'  de  Little  Modder  was  lef 
alone. 


LA  MESSE   DE   MINUIT 


LA  MESSE  DE   MINUIT 

A  CHRISTMAS  LEGEND 

DAT  was  de  only  good  story  w'at  de  ol' 
Phinee  Daoust  Avas  tell  all  de  time  'e 
was  wid  me  an'  Xiste  Brouillette  on 
de  Gatineau  dat  winter. 

I'll  not  be  sure  if  dat  was  de  trut',  but  'e  say 
'e  was  tell  dat  by  la  tante  Lisa,  'is  modder;  an' 
I'll  not  be  sure  w'ere  all  dat  was  arrive — but 
dat  was  jus'  before  Chris'mis,  an'  all  de  people 
was  go  on  la  messe  de  minuit,  an'  de  church 
was  fiir  from  de  rail  of  de  altar  to  the  door. 
An'  de  young  King  'e  was  dere  too,  an'  w'en 
'e  look  on  all  dose  people  an'  on  de  'igh  altar, 
w'at  was  like  le  saint  Paradis  wid  all  de  candle 
an'  de  little  angel,  an'  w'en  'e  look  on  de  pries 
wid  deir  fine  clones  all  red,  an'  w'ite,  an'  gol',  an 
on  de  little  feller  on  de  cboeur,  an'  on  de  soldier 
'is  'eart  was  glad,  an'  'e  see  'e  was  de  bigges 
233 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

an'  de  stronges'  King  w'at  dere  ever  was.  An' 
all  de  time  'e  lis'en  to  de  music  an'  de  boys 
w'at  sing,  an'  w'en  'e  see  de  pries'  move  on  de 
altar,  an'  de  people  w'at  stan'  up  an'  kneel 
down,  'e  forget  for  "Who  all  dat  was  make,  an' 
'e  feel  like  dey  was  make  all  dat  for  'ira. 

An'  bymby  de  pries'  w'at  was  serve  begin  de 
Gloria ;  an'  dat  pries'  'ave  de  voice  w'at  soun' 
jus'  like  de  angel  was  sing.  An'  de  King  lis'en 
ver'  'ard,  an'  bymby  'e  'ear  'ira  an'  de  odder 
pries'  sing 

"  Tu  solus  Dominus ;  Tu  solus  Altissimus." 

An'  de  boys  on  de  choeur  dey  sing  back, 

"  Tu  solus  Dominus ;  Tu  solus  Altissimus." 

An'  de  King  turn  on  de  ol',  ol'  pries'  w'at  was 
sit  'longside  'im,  an'  w'at  was  de  confesseur 
to  'is  fadder  an'  to  'is  gran'fadder  too,  an'  'e 
say  ver'  slow, 

"  Tu  solus  Dominus  ;  Tu  solus  Altissimus?" 

An'  de  ol'  pries'  t'ink  'e  was  h'ax  w'at  dat 
mean,  an'  'e  say,  "  Dat's  w'at  de  angel  was 
sing  w'en  de  men  fin'  de  little  Jesus — 'You 
are  de  only  King.  You  are  de  stronges' 
King!'" 

234 


LA    MESSE    DE    MINUIT 

An'  de  King  make  de  black  face,  an'  'e  say 
on  'is  inside,  "  Les  guenx!  Let  dem  say  w'at 
dey  like,  nobody's  de  only  King  so  long's  I'll 
be  'ere!  An'  dere's  no  King  more  strong  nor 
I'll  be!" 

An'  w'en  de  ol'  pries'  Avas  see  'is  face  get 
'ard  like  dat,  'e  kneel  down  an'  'e  say  de 
prayer  for  de  soul  of  de  young  King.  An' 
de  King  sit  dere,  an'  'e  don'  look  no  more 
on  de  altar,  an'  'e  don'  lis'en  no  more  on 
de  office,  an'  bymby,  w'en  de  pries'  was  be- 
gin de  Credo,  'e  shut  'is  eyes — an'  after  w'ile 
'e  sleep. 

'E  don'  know  'ow  long  dat  was  'e  was  sleep, 
but  bymby  'e  wake  up,  an'  for  little  minute  'e 
don'  know  w'ere  'e  was.  Den  'e  see  de  little 
red  lamp  w'at  never,  never  go  out,  burn  on  de 
front  de  altar,  an'  'igh  up  on  de  roof  'e  can  see 
de  w'ite  shine  of  de  moon  t' rough  de  little  win- 
dow, an'  den  'e  know  'e  was  all  "lone  on  de  big 
church. 

'E  try  an'  fink  'ow  dat  was  arrive,  but  de 

more  'e  t'ink,  de  more  'e  don'  know.     Bymby 

'e  get  up,  an'  'e  pass  down  de  middle  of  de 

church,  but  w'en  'e  waS'Corae  on  de  big  door, 

335 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

'e  fin''  dat  was  fas'  lock'.  Den  'e  feel  'is  way 
roun',  an'  bymby  'e  fin'  de  little  door  onder  de 
clocher  was  open,  an'  w'en  'e  pass  out,  'e  laiigli 
— 'e  t'ink  dat  was  de  firs'  time  w'at  'e  ever  was 
go  t'rough  an}^  door  'cep'  de  big  one. 

On  de  outside  de  snow  was  everyw'ere,  an' 
de  moon  w^as  w'ite,  an'  de  sk}^  was  ver'  'igh  an' 
blue,  an'  de  King  was  shiver  wid  de  col',  so 
'e  make  de  straight  course  for  de  Palais. 

W'en  'e  get  dere  'e  don'  see  no  light  on  de 
window,  so  'e  go  on  de  fron'  door  an'  'e  give 
some  'ard  knock,  but  'e  jus'  wait  de  smalles' 
minute,  an'  den  'e  knock  some  more,  jus'  so 
fas'  an'  so  'ard  'e  was  able  widout  wait  for 
nodding,  an'  bymby  'e  'ear  de  door  open  little 
bit  an'  somebody  say,  "  Who  was  dere  ?"  An' 
'e  was  so  mad  'e  jus'  give  de  door  'ard  push, 
an'  'e  shout :  "H'open  de  door,  vaurien !  Don' 
keep  me  'ere  !"  An'  de  man  sa}^  somet'ing,  an' 
den  de  door  was  slap'  on  'is  face. 

W'en  de  King  see  dat,  'e  can'  say  nodding. 
'E  jus'  Stan'  dere  an'  'e  try  for  t'ink,  but  nod- 
ding come ;  but  bymby  'e  go  back  on  de  door 
some  more,  an'  'e  give  little  qui't  knock.  An' 
de  minute  'e  do  dat,  de  door  was  open'  an' 
somebody  stan'  dere,  an'  de  King  say,  qui't  like, 
336 


■'  *Al>r'   BEN   DEY  CO.MK   ON   DE   COUNTRY 


LA    MESSE    DE    MINUIT 

"  Let  me  pass  on  de  'ouse." 
But  dat  man  say,  "  Who  you  are?" 
An'  'e  say,  "  Me  ?    De  King !" 
An'  de  man,  'e  say,  "  AV'at  king  ?" 
An'  'e  say,  "  Wat  king?    Wy,  de  only  King 
dere  is !" 

An'  den  de  man  'e  say,  "  Wait  one  minute." 
An'  'e  call  for  bring  de  lamp,  an'  'e  lif  de 
lamp  up  so  dey  all  can  see,  an'  'e  say,  "  You 
know  dat  man  ?" 

An'  dey  all  look  on'im,  an'  de  King  seedeir 
eyes,  an'  'e  know  w'at  dey  will  say  before  dey 
speak,  an'  'is  'eart  got  col'  on  'im  like  ice. 

An'  den  de  man  lif  up  de  lamp  some  more, 
an'  'e  say,  "  Look  on  me !" 

An'  dere  de  King  see  nodder  King  jus'  like 
'e  was  'imself.  'E  was  all  dress  up  on  'is 
clo'es,  an'  'e  see  'is  crown  on  'is  'ead ;  but  'e 
don'  say  nodding  for  dat,  because  'e  know  dat 
was  de  angel,  an'  not  de  man  like  'e  was.  An' 
so  'e  don'  say  nodding,  'e  jus'  turn  an  'e'  walk 
'way  over  de  snow.  An'  de  lamp  w'at  de  angel 
'ol'  up  make  every  t'ing  bright — 'cep'  jus'  w'ere 
de  King  was  go. 

An'  de  King  'e  go  on  like  de  man  w'at  was 
sleep,  an'  den  'e  stop,  an'  'e  say,  "Dat's  all  lies! 

237 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

I'll  make  de  dream  all  dis  time.  I'll  go  on  de 
men,  an'  dey  all  know  me !" 

An'  'e  go  over  on  de  'ouse  w'ere  de  soldier 
an'  de  men  was  sleep,  an'  'e  knock  on  de  door, 
an'  'e  call  so  loud  'e  was  able,  "  Ourra,  Ourra, 
mes  gars !"  An'  all  de  men  jump  up  an'  run 
out,  an'  dey  see  jus'  one  poor  man  Av'at  stan' 
dere  on  de  snow.  An'  w'en  deysa}'^,  "Well?" 
'e  go  for  say,  "  Don'  you  know  me  ?  I'll  be 
de— " 

But  w'en  'e  see  deir  face  'e  can'  go  on,  an' 
'e  get  sick  on  'is  'eart,  like  w'en  'e  was  on  de 
door  of  de  Palais.  An'  den  dey  laugh  on  'ira, 
an'  dey  call  'im  all  de  bad  name  dey  know ; 
but  nobody  don'  dare  for  touch  'im.  An' 
byraby,  w'en  dey  get  tire'  wid  deir  fun,  dey 
open  de  door  of  de  stable  w'ere  de  'orse  was 
keep,  an'  dey  say  'e  can  sleep  dere,  an'  dey  go 
off ;  an'  'e  'ear  dem  laugh  w'en  de}'^  go. 

An'  de  King  'e  sit  dere  on  de  stable,  an'  'e 
try  not  for  cry,  an'  'e  try  for  min'  'ow  'e  was 
de  bigges'  an'  de  stronges'  King  on  de  worl', 
no  matter  w'at  arrive. 

But  dere  was  Somebody  else  on  dat  stable 
too.  I'll  not  be  sure  'ow  for  say  jus'  w'at 
dat  was;  not  de  angel,  but  de  little  Boy,  de 

238 


LA    MESSE    DE    MINUIT 

CHIL'  an'  you  see  after  w'ile  for  w'y  'e  was 
be  dere. 

Socle  CHIL'  stan'  dere  an'  'e  watch  de  King 
w'at  was  sit  an'  not  say  nodding  for  long  time, 
an'  de  'orse  dey  all  turn  deir  'eads  an'  dey  watch 
'im  too.  An'  bymby  de  King  'e  got  up  an' 
go  over  on  'is  own  'orse  w'at  nobody  can'  go 
near.  An'  de  'orse  was  move  on  'is  box,  an' 
make  de  little  noise  like  'e  try  for  speak,  an' 
bymby  de  CHIL'  'ear  de  noise  like  de  man  was 
cry,  an'  'e  go  over  an'  'e  see  de  King  wid  'is 
two  arm  roun'  de  neck  of  de  'orse,  an'  'e  'ear 
'ira  say,  "  You  know  w'at  I'll  be !  Yoto 
know  w'at  I'll  be !" 

Den  bymby  de  King  come  out  an'  'e  look 
on  de  CHIL'  like  'e  was  know  'im  all  'is  life, 
an'  w'en  de  CHIL'  say,  "  Come,  let  us  go  !"  de 
King  take  'is  'an',  an'  dey  go  out  de  stable 
an'  pass  down  de  street,  an'  dey  pass  de  'ouse 
w'ere  de  odder  people  was  sleep,  an'  de  big 
church,  an'  den  dey  come  on  de  country ;  an' 
den  far,  far  'way  w'ere  de  King  never  was  pass 
before. 

An'  dey  go  on  an'  on,  p'r'aps  for  six,  eight, 
nine  weeks  like  dat,  an'  all  dat  time  de  King 
339 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

was  t'ink  an'  t'ink,  an'  sometime  'e  don'  speak 
all  de  da3%  an'  don'  sleep  on  de  night,  an'  'is 
face  get  like  de  face  of  de  ol'  man  w'at  'ave 
plenty  trouble.  An'  de  CHIL'  don'  say  nod- 
ding, jus'  let  de  King  go  w'ere  'e  wan',  an'  at 
de  las'  de  King  'e  say,  "  I'll  be  tire'  for  always 
go  on  like  dis,  an'  never  get  no  place,  an'  not 
do  nodding." 

Den  de  CIIIL'  'e  say,  "Dat's  jus'  w'at  I'll 
wan'  too.     I'll  look  for  de  job." 

An'  'e  go  off,  an'  byraby  after  w'ile,  'e  come 
back,  an'  'e  say  to  de  King,  "  Come  wid  me," 
an'  dey  go  to  w'ere  de  Shanty  Boss  was  'ire  de 
men. 

An'  de  Boss  look  ver'  'ard  on  de  King,  but 
all  'e  say  was,  "  Wat  you  call  yourself  ?" 

An'  de  King  begin  for  say,  "  W'at  I  call 
myself  ? — I'll  be  de — " 

But  de  CHIL'  pull  'im  by  de  coat,  an'  'e 
say  quick,  "  'Is  name  ?     Dat's  Jean  LeRoy." 

Den  de  Boss,  'e  say,  "  W'at  you  can  do  ?" 

An'  de  King  not  know  w'at  for  say,  'cause 
'e  never  was  do  nodding  all  'is  life ;  but  de 
CIIIL'  say,  '"E  can  drive  de  'orse." 

Den  de  Boss  laugh,  an'  'e  say,  "  Well,  I'll 
s'pose  I'll  'ave  to  'ire  you,  too,  for  speak  for 
240 


LA    MESSE    DE    MINUIT 

de  odder  feller."  An'  so  'e  take  dem  bot',  an' 
de  work  begin. 

An'  de  Boss  'e  take  de  wil'es'  team  dey  'ave, 
an'  'e  say,  "Dere's  your  job;  start  on  de  morn- 
ing." 

An'  de  CHIL'  an'  de  King  was  manage  dose 
'orse  like  dey  never  was  do  nodding  else  on 
deir  life ;  an'  de  Boss  was  wonder  w'en  'e  see 
dem  start. 

Den  dey  was  'appy;  jus'  demself  on  de  long 
empty  road,  sometime  on  de  ice  up  de  river, 
an'  sometime  t'rough  de  l>ush,  an'  everyt'ing 
so  sof,  an'  qui't,  an'  w'ite,  like  dere  never  was 
no  trouble  an'  no  bodder  on  de  worl'. 

An'  sometime  dey  see  de  cariboo,  w'at  jus' 
stan'  dere  an'  look  on  dem  pass ;  an'  de  squir- 
rel, an'  de  little  beas'  an'  de  bird  w'at  was  lef, 
run  beside  dem  on  de  bush,  an'  come  on  deir 
camp  w'en  dey  stop ;  an'  nodding  like  dat  was 
'fraid  for  dem,  because  dey  know  w'at  de  CHIL' 
an'  de  King  was.  An'  de  King  was  not  t'ink 
like  before,  an'  'e  tramp  beside  de  team,  an'  'e 
work  all  de  day,  an'  on  de  night  'e  sleep  like 
de  little  baby;  so  dey  was  sorry  only  w'en  dey 
make  deir  voyage,  an'  come  on  de  big  shanty. 

Dere  all  de  bodder  begin  some  more.      De 

Q  241 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

King  was  all  right  wid  de  'orse  on  de  bush,  but 
wid  de  man  all  de  ol'  trouble  come  back,  an'  'is 
face  begin  for  grow  ol'  an'  w'ite,  an'  de  CHIL' 
was  glad  w'en  de  day  come  for  start  de  down 
trip. 

W'en  dey  was  all  t'rough  wid  dat  job  an' 
was  pay  off,  dey  go  on  de  farm  an'  'ire  dem- 
self  for  plough  de  new  fiel'  w'at  Avas  break 
up  for  de  firs'  time.  An'  w'en  dey  was  'lone  by 
demself  everyt'ing  go  all  right;  de  King  was 
sof,  an'  'is  face  get  like  de  young  man  some 
more ;  but  w'en  dey  go  back  on  de  'ouse  de 
King  'e  h'eat  'is  supper  an'  'e  don'  say  nodding 
'cep'  w'en  dey  h'ax  'im  de  question ;  an'  w'en 
dey  sit  roun'  de  lamp  for  jaser,  de  King  'e 
go  an'  sit  on  the  door  an'  look  out  on  de 
night. 

An'  one  time  dey  begin  for  speak  'bout  de 
King,  and  dey  say  'ow  good  'e  was,  an'  'ow 
good  everyt'ing  go  on.  An'  all  dat  night  de 
CHIL'  'ear  de  King  turn  on  'is  bed,  an'  on  de 
mornino^  'e  see  'is  face  was  grow  ol'  an'  w'ite 
like  before.  Den  de  CHIL'  see  dat  won'  do; 
an'  w'en  dey  got  t'rough  wid  deir  job,  'e  say, 
"  Now  we  go  on  some  more,"  an'  de  King  don' 
h'ax  nodding — dey  jus'  go  on. 

24,2 


won'  you  pass  on  de  "ouse  an'  res 


LA    MESSE    DE    MINUIT 

An'  dat  time  dey  go  ver'  far,  an'  one  day 
w'en  'e  was  make  ver'  'ot,  an'  dey  was  all  tire' 
out,  -dey  come  on  de  little  village,  an'  dey  pass 
on  de  little  w'ite  'ouse  w'at  was  stan'  between 
de  road  an'  de  river,  an'  dere  was  de  woman 
w'at  work  on  'er  flower  on  de  garden. 

An'  dey  give  'er  de  bonjour,  an'  dey  speak 
wid  'er  little  w'ile,  an'  de  CIIIL'  h'ax  'er  'bout 
de  flower,  an'  bymby  she  say,  "  Won'  you  pass 
on  de  'ouse  an'  res'  ? — you  look  like  you  was 
all  tire'  out."  An'  she  open  de  gate,  an'  dey 
pass'  on  de  inside. 

An'  den  de  woman  bring  de  chair,  an'  dey 
sit  w'ere  it  was  make  nice  an'  col',  an'  dey  can 
see  de  river,  an'  de  church,  an'  de  bridge ;  an' 
de  woman  she  bring  dem  de  milk  an'  de  bread. 
An'  dey  sit  dere,  an'  de  woman  h'ax  dem  de 
question  'bout  de  way  dey  come,  an'  'boutdeir 
village ;  an'  den  she  tell  dem  all  'bout  'erself 
an'  'er  man  w'at  was  die ;  an'  de  King  listen 
all  de  time,  an'  bymby  after  w'ile,  'e  turn  on 
de  CHIL',  an'  'e  say,  "  I'll  be  tire'  wid  always 
change.  I'll  like  for  stay  'ere  little  w'ile."  An' 
dat's  de  firs'  time  de  King  was  satisfy  for  be 
wid  de  odder  people.  An'  w'en  de  CHIL'  see 
dat,  'e  was  glad,  an'  'e  go  off  ;  an'  w'en  'e  come 

243 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

back,  'e  say,  "  Dat's  all  right !  I'll  see  de  Cure, 
an'  'e  say  you  can  teach  de  school  for  'im." 

An'  so  dey  stay,  an'  dey  live  wid  dat  woman  ; 
an'  every  day  de  King  'e  was  teach  de  school. 

On  de  morning  'e  was  get  up  early,  an'  'e 
work  on  de  garden,  an'  den  'e  'ave  de  break- 
fas',  an'  den  'e  go  on  de  school ;  an'  every- 
t'ing  Av'at  'e  do,  'e  do  good ;  de  garden  'ave 
de  bes'  flower  on  de  parish,  an'  nobody  'ave 
no  trouble  for  sen'  de  chil'n  on  de  school. 

De  King  'e  like  all  dose  little  feller,  an'  de 
little  girl  too;  but  dere  was  one  little  feller 
vv'at  'e  like  de  bes'  of  all,  an'  'e  was  glad  w'en 
'e  come  wnd  'im  on  de  garden,  an'  watch  'im 
work,  an'  'e  never  was  tire'  for  speak  wid  'im, 
no  matter  w'at  'e  h'ax. 

An'  so  dey  go  on  like  dat,  an'  every  day  w'en 
de  school  was  finish'  de  CHIL'  lock  up,  an'  de 
King  go  over  on  de  presbytere,  an'  'im  an'  de 
Cure  smoke  de  pipe  onder  de  tree  near  de 
river,  an'  sometime  dey  walk  up  an'  down,  an' 
sometime  dey  sit  qui't.  Nobody  know  w'at 
de  Cure  say,  but  de  King  always  come  back 
wid  'is  face  sof  like  'e  was  'appy. 

An'  de  summer  pass  on  dat  way,  an'  w'en  de 
Chris'mis-time  come  near,  de  Cure  an'  de  King 
244 


LA    MESSE    DE    MINUIT 

was  teach  de  boy  for  sing  de  noels  an'  de 
cantiques.  An'  one  day  w'en  dey  was  sing 
long  time,  an'  de  King  see  de  little  feller  was 
tire',  'e  stop  an'  begin  for  tell  dem  de  story. 
De  King  'e  was  ver'  strong  on  de  story — 'e 
know  mos'  all  w'at  arrive  on  de  worl' — an' 
dat  Sonday  'e  was  tell  dem  'bout  de  King  Da- 
vid, 'ow  'e  was  kill  de  wil'  beas' ;  an'  dat  little 
feller  w'at  I'll  tol'  you  'bout,  'e  say  w'en  'e 
'ear  dat,  "  Dat's  jus'  like  our  King !  'E's  de 
bigges'  an'  de  stronges'  King  on  de  worl' !" 
An'  den  de  little  feller  say  on  de  King,  "  Dere's 
nobody  w'at's  more  strong  nor  our  King — 
hein  ?" 

An'  de  King  'is  face  got  all  w'ite,  an'  'e 
can'  say  nodding. 

An'  de  little  feller  'e  pull  'is  coat,  an'  'e  say 
some  more,  "  You  don'  t'ink  dere's  nobody 
more  sti'ong  nor  'im  ?" 

An'  de  King  'e  look  up,  an'  'e  see  de  CHIL' 
was  look  straight  on  'im,  like  'e  was  seen  on 
'is  'eart.  Den  de  King  turn  on  de  little  feller, 
an'  'e  say,  ver'  sof  an'  qui't,  but  dey  all  'ear 
w'at  'e  say,  "  Mais  oui,  mon  cher  petit — le  bon 
Dieu."  An'  'e  make  de  sign  of  de  cross,  an' 
cover  up  'is  face  wid  'is  'an'  .  .  . 
245 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

An'  de  minute  'e  do  dat,  'e  'ear  like  de  'ole 
place  was  fill  wid  de  music,  an'  'e  'ear  like  de 
angel  was  sing, 

"Minuit  Chretien, 

C'est  I'heure  de  deliverance  !" 

An'  'e  take  'is  'an'  off  'is  face,  an'  dere,  jus' 
like  before  'e  Avas  go  for  sleep,  'e  see  de  'igli 
altar  shine  wid  de  gol',  an'  dere  was  all  de 
pries',  an'  de  soldier,  an'  de  people,  an'  dere 
'e  was  'imself  on  de  church. 

An'  den  de  King  give  little  shiver,  an'  bym- 
by  'e  kneel  down  on  de  floor,  an'  'e  put  'is  'an' 
on  de  'an'  of  de  ol'  pries'  w'at  was  pray  dere 
beside  'ira,  an'  nobody  see  'ow  de  tear  of  de 
pries'  was  fall  on  de  'an'  of  de  young  King. 


MALOUIN 


MALOUIN 

OH  yes,  dat  was  all  change'  now ;  but 
I'll  not  be  sure  'e  was  any  better  nor 
de  ol'  way.  You  put  your  vote  in  de 
box  now,  of  course.  But  w'at's  de  good? 
Ef  de  man  not  be  'ones',  'e  jus'  sell  'is  vote, 
an'  den  'e  vote  de  odder  way,  an'  nobody 
know. 

I'll  be  always  vote  bleue,  me  ;  'cep'  only 
once — an'  dat  arrive  like  dis : 

Dat  was  de  year  w'en  de  young  Bigras,  de 
avocat,  run  'gainst  de  ol'  Malouin,  an'  we  'ave 
de  'ole  country  out  dat  time,  for  sure. 

De  ol'  Malouin,  'e  was  de  riches'  man  on 
Ste.-Philomene;  'e  'ave  de  big  store  an'  de  bes' 
'ouse  on  de  village  —  de  big  stone  'ouse  w'at 
'e  buy  w'en  de  ol'  Mackenzie  die — an'  'e  'ave 
plenty  farm,  an'  'e  len'  de  money  wid  every- 
body ;  an'  nearly  always  w'en  'e  len',  'e  get  de 
Ian'  some'ow.     An'  wid  all  'is  money  'e  was 

249 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

de  mean,  miserable  ol'  feller,  wid  'is  'eart  like 
de  'ardes'  stone  on  de  Gran'  Cote. 

'E  was  de  same  w'at  get  my  fadder  on  all  de 
trouble  on  de  "  trente-sept" ;  an'  w'en  my  fad- 
der was  kill',  'e  was  sell  de  poor  Little  Modder 
out,  like  she  was  de  common  beggar-woman. 

An'  de  young  Bigras,  'e  was  de  son  to  de  ol', 
ol'  Bigras,  de  notary,  w'at  live  so  long  dey  say 
'e's  forget  'ow  for  die.  Any'ow,  dat  young 
feller  'e  was  ver'  smart,  an'  dey  say  'e  was  do 
Avell  on  Montreal,  an'  'e  was  come  down  all 
t'rough  de  country  on  de  las'  'lection,  an'  dey 
speak  of  'im  good  deal  sence  dat ;  but  we  was 
all  'fraid  'e  not  'ave  much  chance  wid  de  ol' 
Malouin. 

De  firs'  assemblee  w'at  dey  'ave  for  name 
deir  man  was  on  St.  Isidore,  on  de  Sonday 
after  la  grande  raesse,  an'  nearly  de  'ole  of  de 
crowd  was  Malouin. 

De  young  Bigras  was  dere,  too,  an'  wid  'im 
was  'is  frien'  from  Montreal,  French  an'  Ang- 
lish,  too;  an'  dey  all  come  late  on  de  church, 
an'  all  take  deir  place  near  de  door,  an'  every- 
body turn  'roun'  for  see  dem ;  an'  dey  all  look 
ver'  fine  wid  deir  black  coat,  an'  we  was  proud 
for  de  young  Bigras  to  'ave  frien'  like  dat. 

350 


DEY   WAS  JLS'   LIKE   ALL   DE   SPKECII   UEY   MAKE   EVEUY   TIME' 


MALOUIN 

Of  course  dey  was  out  de  firs',  an'  w'en  de 
odder  come,  dey  fin'  de  'ole  platform,  w'at  was 
fix  up  on  de  square,  was  all  fill'  up  wid  de  black 
coat  an'  de  new  'at  from  Montreal;  but  Ma- 
louin  'e  don'  say  nodding,  an'  I'll  see  all  'is 
gang  was  look  like  dey  was  wait  for  somet'ing. 

Bymby  we  see  M.  Alec  "Watson  come  on  de 
front  of  de  platform,  an'  'e  'ol'  out  'is  'an',  an' 
'e  begin  for  say,  "Messieurs  les — "  w'en  some- 
body yell  out,  "Ourra  pour  Malouin!"  an'  de 
minute  de  gang  'ear  dat,  de  place  was  t'ick  wid 
stone,  an'  e'  wasn'  two  minute  before  de  plat- 
form was  empty,  an'  all  de  fine  'at  an'  de  black 
coat  was  run  so  'ard  dey  can  for  deir  wagon, 
w'at  you  not  be  able  for  see  dem  wid  de  dus' ! 

Well,  bagosh!  I'll  be  sorry  for  de  young 
Bigras,  but  I'll  fin'  dat  so  fonny,  I'll  jus'  laugh 
wid  all  de  res';  an'  w'en  we  laugh  de  ol'  Ma- 
louin wid  all  'is  frien',  all  dress'  wid  etoffe  du 
pays,  was  up,  an'  de  speech  begin. 

Dey  was  jus'  like  all  de  speech  w'at  dey 
make  every  time — all  lies  w'at  dey  say,  an'  all 
mud  w'at  dey  t'row.  But  Mailhot,  de  notary, 
'e  say  one  t'ing  w'at  I'll  not  forgot.  'E  say, 
"  Bymby  dose  gennelmen  dey  come  back,  an' 
dey  'ave  de  same  chance  Av'en  dey  come  for 

251 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

speak  like  we  'ave.  Nobody  won'  say  '  Ourra' 
for  scare  dera  some  more,  an'  ef  'e  rain,  'e 
jus'  rain  sof ,  an'  no  more  stone.  An'  w'en 
dey  come,  dey  talk  like  dey  always  do,  but 
dis  year  all  deir  talk  is  'de  deficit.'  Dat's 
w'at  dey  try  an'  scare  you  wid ;  an'  dat's 
somet'ing  w'at  dey  know  all  'bout,  for  dat  was 
de  bigges'  t'ing  w'at  dey  lef  be'in'  dera. 

"  Now  I'll  tell  you  w'at  dat  was.  W'en  we 
go  down  on  Quebec  two  year  pas'  for  save  de 
country,  de  firs'  t'ing  w'at  we  look  for,  for  see 
ef  'e's  not  be  gone  wid  de  gennelmen  w'at  we 
put  out,  was— de  money, 

"  Well,  we  look  all  t'rough  de  'ole  boutique 
from  de  bottom  to  de  top,  an'  we  was  jus'  give 
up,  w'en  somebody  say  dere  was  de  little  ar- 
moire  onder  de  stair;  but  we  all  say  dere  was 
no  good  for  look  dere.  But  de  little  Amyot 
from  St.  Barthelmi,  'e  say  'e  don'  know,  'e  was 
look  any'ow.  An'  'e  open  de  door,  an'  'e  pull 
out  de  little  ches',  un  p'ti'  coffre ;  an'  'e  was 
all  paint'  blue,  an'  'e  'ave  de  big  iron  'inges  an' 
de  big  iron  padlock  tie  up  wid  little  piece  of 
string ;  an'  de  minute  we  see  dat,  we  all  say, 
'Dat's 'im!' 

"But  de  little  Amyot  'e  sit  down  on  de  top, 

252 


MALOUIN 

an'  'e  say,  ' ' An's  off !  I'll  fin'  dis,  an'  nobody 
can'  grab  firs'.'  An'  den  'e  h'ax  us  for  all 
Stan'  wid  our  'an's  be'in'  our  back,  an'  w'en  'e 
open  de  ches',  w'at  you  fink  'e  fin'  ?  'E  fin' 
'  de  deficit !'  Oui,  messieurs,  '  le  deficit !'  An' 
dere  was  nodding  else  oa  de  ches'  but  'de 
deficit.' 

"  But  no ;  I'll  be  mistake !  Dere  was  some- 
t'ing  else ! 

"  On  de  one  corner,  stick  down  'ard  on  de 
crack,  was  one  big  two-sous  piece,  an'  de  wood 
was  all  scratch  wid  de  finger  of  de  gennelman 
w'at  try  for  not  leave  'im  be'in'  wid  de  res'. 

"So, messieurs,' w'en  dey  talk  on  'de  deficit,' 
you  all  know  w'at  dey  mean." 

AVell,  bymby,  de  odder  come  back,  and  de 
assemblee  was  go  on,  an'  after  w'ile  'e  was 
t'rough,  an'  we  all  go  'ome. 

An'  den  de  work  begin,  an'  nobody  was  do 
nodding,  nobody  was  talk  nodding,  'cep'  de 
'lection.  We  'ave  de  assemblee  all  over  de 
country.  We  go  up,  an'  we  go  down.  Some- 
time we  'ave  de  fight,  but  everybody  was  'appy, 
an'  everybody  talk  so  big  's  'e  can  for  'is  man. 

Well,  bymby  de  day  come,  an'  we  was  up 

253 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

mos'  de  'ole  night  before,  an'  de  chance  look 
pretty  good  for  Bigras;  but  we  know  ef  dere's 
not  good  man  for  watch  de  poll  for  'im  on  Ste. 
Philomene,  dere's  no  chance.  So  we  h'ax 
Johnny  Shepper'  for  come  down,  an'  w'en  'e 
say  'e  was  come,  we  know  dat's  all  correc', 
for  'e's  pretty  big  man  w'at  scare  Johnny. 

But  we  was  pretty  sick  dat  morning  w'en 
we  come  out  an'  fin'  de  ol'  Malouin  'ave  bring 
down  all  dose  Irish  feller  all  de  way  from 
de  Gore  on  de  night.  An'  dere  dey  was  w'ere 
dey  'ad  no  biznet  for  be,  'mos'  a  'undre'  of  dem, 
an'  every  one  'ave  de  new  h'axe-'andle  on  'is 
'an',  an'  I'll  know  does  'andle'  come  from  de 
ol'  Malouin. 

An'  dat  was  not  de  wors' !  Seven  a-clock 
come,  an'  no  Johnny  Shepper' ;  eight  a-clock, 
an'  no  Johnny ;  an'  den  'alf-pas'  eight,  an'  de 
poll  was  open  at  nine,  an'  dere's  no  Johnny 
come. 

An'  den  me  an'  Xiste  Brouillette  take  Rosa- 
lie an'  start  off  down  de  road  for  see  w'at  ar- 
rive. An  w'en  we  come  near  to  de  biff  turn 
on  de  swamp  we  'ear  somebody  yell;  an'  w'en 
we  get  more  near,  we  'ear  'im  some  more,  an' 
Xiste  'e  say,  "  Dat  soun'  like  Johnny  !" 
354 


MALOUIN 

You  know  de  road  make  de  long  detour  for 
go  roun'  de  end  of  de  swamp,  an'  w'en  'e  cross 
de  bad  place  w'ere  dere's  water  de  'ole  year 
long,  dere  is  two  little  bridge,  one  on  each 
side,  wid  de  good  Ian'  on  de  middle. 

Well,  w'en  we  get  on  de  turn  for  cross,  sure 
'nough  dere  was  Johnny,  wid  de  bridge  all 
gone  between  w'ere  we  was  an'  'im.  An'  'e 
was  walk  up  an'  down  on  de  front  of  'is  'orse, 
an'  de  way  'e  was  curse  an'  swear  was  awful. 

'E  say  dat  was  de  ol'  Malouin  w'at  fix  'im 
dat  way.  An'  w'en  we  say  w'y  'e  don'  go  back 
an'  come  roun'  by  de  odder  road,  'e  swear  worse 
nor  before,  an'  'e  say  'e  can'  get  off  de  swamp, 
dat  de  odder  bridge  was  gone  too. 

Well,  bagosh !  dat  was  ver'  smart  trick,  even 
ef  'e  was  play'  by  de  ol'  Malouin  !  Dey  mus' 
'ave  pull  down  de  odder  bridge  jus'  after  John- 
ny was  pass  an'  w'en  'e  was  'oiler  for  some- 
body for  'elp  'im  on  dis  bridge,  w'at  'e  t'ink 
was  break  by  'imself. 

Well,  dere  'e  was !  An'  bymby  after  w^ile, 
'e  begin  for  laugh,  an'  'e  say,  "  Well,  boys,  I'll 
be  fix'  'ere!  You  go  back  an'  vote  straight; 
dough  dat  poll's  gone,  for  sure !"  An'  den  we 
tell  'im  'bout  de  Irish  from  de  Gore,  an'  'e 

255 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

say  dat  don'  make  nodding  any'ow ;  ef  dey 
don'  'ave  no  man  for  watch  de  poll  'e's  gone, 
Irish  or  no  Irish.  Den  'e  say,  "  Sen'  me  some- 
t'ing  for  drink  any'ow,  an'  tell  de  ol'  Malouin 
w'en  'e's  finish  for  vote  all  de  chil'n  an'  all  de 
people  w'at  was  dead,  for  come  an'  fix  de 
bridge  an'  let  me  off,  an'  I'll  not  lick  'im  till 
de  day  'e  was  leave  for  Quebec." 

So  we  go  back.  An'  Xiste  'e  say  dere's  no 
good  for  vote,  an'  'e  won'  get  'is  'ead  smash 
for  no  Irish  picnic ;  but  I'll  say  I'll  don'  care, 
I'll  'ave  my  vote  down  'gainst  dat  ol'  devil 
Malouin,  ef  'e's  de  last  act. 

So  Xiste  'e  go  on  'is  fadder  wid  Rosalie, 
an'  I'll  go  on  de  poll,  an'  I'll  meet  Mailhot,  an' 
'e  say,  "Don'  Johnny  Shepper'  come  for  see 
de  fair  play?"  An'  I'll  not  say  nodding;  I'll 
jus'  go  on. 

An'  dere  on  de  front  of  de  poll,  w'at  was  on 
de  school-'ouse,  was  all  de  Irish  gang,  an'  I'll 
'ear  dem  yell  an'  shout ;  an'  den  I'll  see  Tom 
Culbert  was  stan'  dere  wid  'is  'orse,  an'  I'll 
'ear  de  ol'  Pelland,  w'at  keep  de  poll,  say, 
"Wat's  'is  name?"  An'  he  make  like  'e  was 
look  over  'is  book  ver'  'ard,  an'  'e  won'  look 
up.  An'  Culbert  'e  say,  "  Jack,  John  Culbert," 
256 


-»«ai?*^« 


DERE  WAS  JOHNNIE   WID  DE  BRIDGE   ALL  GONE 


MALOUIN 

de  name  of  'is  brodder  w'at  was  on  Califournie. 
An'  de  ol'  Pelland  say,  "  Correc' ;  h'ax  'im  for 
w'o  'e  vote."  An'  Tom  'e  sa}"-,  "  You  vote  for 
Malouin?"  an'  'e  pull  de  rein  an'  de  'orse  put 
'is  'ead  down.  An'  Tom  say,  "  'E  can'  speak, 
'e  jus'  make  de  bow  w'en  I'll  say  '  Malouin.' " 
An'  den  dey  all  yell,  an'  de  ol'  Pelland  put  de 
'orse  down. 

Den  dey  see  me,  an'  Tom  Culbert  yell  out, 
"  Line  up  dere  !  Don'  you  see  de  gennelman 
'e's  wait  for  vote  ?  An'  den  dey  was  all  stan' 
up  on  two  line,  an'  dey  all  'ave  deir  h'axe- 
'andle.  An'  den  Tom  'e  yell,  "  'Tenshion  !" 
like  dey  was  soldier,  an'  up  go  all  de  stick,  an' 
I'll  see  I'll  'ave  to  go  onder  deni  for  pass  on 
de  poll. 

Bagosh !  I'll  be  scare' ;  but  w'en  I'll  t'ink  on 
dat  ol'  Malouin,  I'll  jus'  make  myself  'ard,  an' 
I'll  keep  ray  eye  fix  on  de  poll,  an'  I'll  go  on. 

An'  dose  feller  say,  "  Were's  Johnny  Shep- 
per'  ?"  An'  de  one  feller  say  on  de  odder  fel- 
ler, "  You  not  see  Johnny  Shepper',  Mike  ?" 
An'  de  odder  feller  say,  "  No,  Tim,  H'ax  dis 
gennelman;  p'r'aps  'e  was  meet  wid  'im."  An' 
nodder  say,  '•  '01'  up  your  stick  dere !  Don' 
you  see  de  man  'ave  de  sore  'ead  ?"     An'  all 

R  257 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

dat  make  me  all  de  more  wan'  for  get  one 
'ones'  vote  'gainst  dat  ol'  devil  Malouin. 

An'  de  oV  Pelland  sit  dere  wid  his  book,  an' 
'e  look  on  me,  an'  'e  laugh  on  my  face,  an  'e 
say,  "  Bon  jour,  Melchior.  'E  was  make  'igh 
water  on  de  swamp  to-day !  But  dat's  not  de 
biznet.  Now  for  w'o  you  vote  ?  For  Francois 
Xavier  Malouin,  raarchand — " 

An'  I'll  be  so  mad,  I'll  say,  "Wat,  me? 
Malouin  ?" 

An'  dat  little  cross-eye'  goglu  'e  say,  "  Dat's 
all  right;  'e  say,  'Malouin!'  " 

An'  my  name  go  down  for  dat  ol'  v'limeux. 
An'  Pelland  'e  yell  out,  "  'Nodder  for  Malouin ! 
Ourra !" 

An'  I'll  try  for  grab  de  book,  but  dey  all 
begin  wid  deir  "  Ourra!  ourra  pour  Malouin!" 
An'  dey  pull  me  de  one  way,  an'  dey  pull  me  de 
odder  way,  an'  de  one  feller  t'row  de  flour  all 
over  my  'ead,  an'  de  odder  tear  my  coat,  an' 
no  matter  'ow  I'll  try,  I'll  not  get  de  chance 
for  fight. 

Well,  after  w'ile  dey  was  tire'  out,  and  I'll 
get  down  on  de  ol'  Brouillette,  an'  de  girl  fix 
me  up  so  well's  I'll  be  able  ;  but  w'en  I'll  start 
for  'orae,  I'll  fin'  some  feller  have  paint  all  de 

258 


MALOUIN 

spot  on  Eosalie  wid  cle  red  paint,  an  I'll  not 
be  able  for  come  on  de  village  for  more  nor 
free  week. 

An'  dat's  de  only  time  w'at  I'll  not  vote  for 
de  straight  ticket,  me ! 


JOIIKNY    PtAWSON 


JOHNNY  RAWSON 

DE  firs'  time  w'at  I'll  see  Johnny  Ra\v- 
'  son  was  at  Le  May's,  de  big  tavern  at 
Bord-a-Plouffle.  'E  was  come  down 
boss  of  de  big  raf  for  Qnebec,  an'  I'll  go  up  for 
Bytown  wid  my  cousin  Pliinee  Daoust,  w'at 
was  promis'  de  Little  Modder  for  take  care 
of  me  for  inake  my  firs'  winter  on  de  bush. 
Phinee  was  dere  of'en,  but  me  I'll  was  only 
'bout  twelve,  t'irteen  year  ol',  an'  dat's  de  firs' 
time  w'at  I'll  be  from  'ome. 

Dey  sen'  me  on  Le  May's  for  wait  for  Phi- 
nee, Av'at  was  come  de  nex'  day,  an'  w'en  I'll 
wait  dere,  dose  feller  all  come.  Wen  dey  'ave 
deir  supper  de  fun  begin,  an'  de  room  was 
clear',  an'  de  oF  Le  May,  big,  fat  man,  bring 
in  de  fiddle,  an'  de  dance  w^as  start. 

Well,  de  music  don'  go  ver'  good,  an'  de  boys 
not  dance  ver'  strong;  an'  bymby  I'll  see  de 
big  feller — more  big  nor  anybody  on  de  room 

263 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

— go  up  on  de  Ikldler,  an'  'e  say  somet'ing  on 
'im,  an'  'e  laugh,  'an'  'e  take  a  chair  an'  stick  'im 
on  de  table,  an'  de  big  man  jump  dere  wid  de 
fiddle  on  'is  'an',  an  'e  'oiler  out,  "  'Ere,  boys ! 
You  don'  call  dat  dancin' !  Shout,  you  devil, 
shout!"  An'  de  fiddle  go  up  onder  'is  chin, 
an'  de  bow  come  down  on  'er  like  'e  go  for  cut 
'er  on  two ;  an'  de  fiddle  give  de  scream ;  an' 
den  dey  laugh;  an'  'is  foot  go  up  an'  down,  an 
'e  sing : 

"A  Bytown  c'est  un'  joli'  place, 

Oil  il  s'niraass'  bien  d'  la  crasse  ; 

Ou  y  a  des  joli's  fiUes, 

Et  aussi  des  jolis  gardens, 

Dans  les  cliantiers  nous  hiveruerons!''^ 

Bagosh!  I'll  never  'ear  nodding  like  dat! 
Dera  boys  sing  so  strong  dey  scare  de  smoke 
out  de  room.     An'  de  way  dey  dance ! 

I'll  go  roun'  on  de  ol'  Le  May,  an'  I'll  b'ax 
'im  w'o  dat  big  feller  was,  an'  'e  say,  "  You 
be  know  'im  pretty  well  'nough,  little  feller,  ef 
'e  let  you  grow  up.     Dat's  Johnny  RaAVson !" 

"  Wat  Johnny  Eawson  ?" 

"Wy,  Johnny  Rawson — 'Gatineau  John- 
ny'— de  Walking  Boss  for  de  Richardson 
shanty !" 

264 


^^ 


"A     BYTOAYN     C'EST   UN   JOLI  PLACE 


JOHNNY    RAWSON 

"Well,  for  sure  I'll  know  Johnny  Rawson. 
pretty  good  after  dat,  an'  'e  was  de  devil! 
But  jus'  one  time  dey  get  square  wid  him ;  all 
'cep'  one  feller. 

Dat  was  'bout  four  mont'  after  dat  time,  an' 
Mose  Snow  was  de  boss  for  our  shanty,  an' 
Johnny  was  de  boss  for  de  'ole  de  camp. 

Well,  dere  come  one  of  dose  wet,  rainy  Son- 
day,  w'en  de  rain  rain,  an'  de  snow  snow,  an'  de 
trees  an'  everyt'ing  was  Avet  like  warm  water. 
De  boys  all  sit  on  de  fire,  more  nor  forty  fel- 
ler, an'  dey  play  card,  an'  dey  smoke,  an'  dc}'^ 
men'  deir  clo'es ;  but  nobody  sing,  nobody  do 
nodding,  'cep'  spit,  an'  swear  on  de  rain  an'  de 
wet. 

Bymb}'^,  good  strong  talk  begin  ^v'ere  John- 
ny was,  an'  de  mos'  of  us  stop  doin'  nodding 
an'  listen.  'E  talk  wid  Irish  Mike,  an'  bymby 
I'll  'ear  Mike  say,  "  Oh,  damn  de  Queen!" 

An'  den  Johnny  'e  spit  over  'is  shoulder  an' 
'e  yell,  "Mose!"  An'  w'en  Mose  come,  'e  turn, 
an'  'e  say,  sof  and  slow  like,  "  Mose  Snow, 
you  'ear  w'at  dis  gennelman  say  ?" 

An'  Mose  'e  say  jus'  de   same  way,   qui't, 
qui't,  "  No,  Johnny.     Wat  'e  was  say  ?" 
265 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

Bagosh  !  I'll  not  like  de  way  dey  was  speak 
so  sof , 

An'  Johnny  'e  say  some  more,  "Wy  Mose 
Snow,  'e  say,  '  Damn  de  Queen  !' " 

Well,  Mose  'e  jus'  give  one  'oiler,  an'  de 
fio;lit  beo;in ! 

You  bet  your  life  I'll  skin  for  de  door  all 
de  fas'  I'll  be  able  !  An'  bymby,  w'en  I'll  get 
my  win',  I'll  come  back,  an'  w'en  I'll  come  on 
de  shanty,  I'll  'ear  Johnny  sing: 

"  O  !  dans  les  clianliers  nous  hivernerons !" 

An'  w'en  I'll  look  t'rough  de  wind}'-,  I'll  see 
Mose  w'at  stan'  on  front  w'ere  all  de  h'axe 
was  pile'  an'  de  bo3^s  try  for  get  pas'  'im,  but 
nobody  like  for  come  too  near  de  h'axe  w'at  'e 
swing.  An'  Johnny  was  beside  'ira,  an'  'e  'ave 
de  iron  fire-shovel  wid  de  long  Mc'ory  'andle, 
an'  w'enever  'e  get  de  lick  at  de  feller,  down 
dey  go.  One  man  was  crawl  out  de  camboose 
fire  w'ere  'e  was  knock'  by  Johnn}'^,  an'  dere 
was  plenty  on  de  floor.  De  res'  dey  t'row  de 
fire-wood,  de  bake-kettle,  de  tin  pan  so  fas'  you 
can  'ardly  see,  an'  all  de  time  dey  was  yell  an' 
swear  jus'  de  same  like  dey  was  fight. 

Bymby,  I'll  see  Phinee  Daoust  an'  free  odder 
266 


JOHNNY    RAWSON 

feller  pick  up  de  long  bench  an'  run  for  Mose. 
An'  'e  yell  for  Johnny,  an'  cley  bot'  rush  for 
de  boys.  An'  de  h'axe  go,  an'  de  fire-shovel 
go;  an'  bymby  de  boys  go  too,  an'  de  door 
wasn'  'ardly  big  'nough  for  let  dem  out  so  fas' 
dey  want. 

An'  w'en  de  shanty  was  all  clear,  Johnny 
an'  Mose  dey  sit  down,  and  dey  swear,  an'  dey 
laugh  w'en  dey  get  deir  win',  like  'e's  all  some 
good  joke. 

I'll  not  like  dose  joke,  me !  Ef  de  man  wan' 
for  fight  bad,  w'y  don'  'e  go  out  an'  fight  wid 
de  tree,  or  lick  'is  dog,  or  do  somet'ing  w'at 
don'  'urt  nobody? 

Well,  den  Johnny  an'  Mose  dey  start  an'  fix 
up  de  feller  w'at  dey  was  'urt  de  wors',  an' 
w^'en  dey  was  all  come  back,  an'  everyt'ing  was 
qui't  some  more,  I'll  come  on  de  inside  too,  but 
I'll  sit  near  de  door.     An'  den  Johnny  say, 

"  Well,  boys,  dis  is  Sonday,  an'  now  you  all 
'ave  your  fon  don'  let's  'ave  no  'ard  feelin'. 
An'  Mose  an'  me  we  go  up  on  de  widdy  Green 
an'  we  tote  down  little  w'iskey  jus'  for  fix  up 
any  'ead'  what's  little  sore." 

An'  dey  go,  an'  nobody  don'  min'  me,  so  I'll 
foller  for  see  w'at  arrive.  Well,  sir,  dem  fel- 
267 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

ler  dey  was  reg'lar  'ogs  !  Dey  was  not  be  sat- 
isfy wid  fight  like  de  animal  de  'ole  day,  but 
w'en  de}^  get  on  de  widdy  Green,  dey  tell  de  ol' 
woman,  an'  dey  all  laugh,  an'  dey  drink  an' 
drink,  an'  I'll  see  dere's  not  much  show  for  de 
boys. 

So  I'll  go  back,  an'  w'en  111  tell  dem,  Irish 
Mike  yell,  "Come  on,  boys,  we'll  fix  dem 
now  !"  An'  dey  all  start. 

Well,  dose  feller  dey  was  worse  nor  de 
odder  !  W'en  dey  get  dere,  Johnny  and  Mose 
dey  couldn'  'ardly  stan',  an'  Johnn}?-  t'ink  'e 
was  all  some  joke,  an'  he  sing  'out,  "  Come  on, 
bo3's!  'Ere's  de  w'iskey  for  de  crowd!"  an' 
'ol'  up  de  bottle.  An'  Mike  say,  "  Let's  see  if 
'e's  strong!"  An'  'e  grab  de  bottle  an'  'it 
Johnny  smash  on  de  'ead  wid  'im,  an'  down  'e 
go.  An'  den  Mike  an'  de  man  w'at  was  knock' 
on  de  fire,  dey  lick  Johnny  an'  Mose  till  dey 
can'  stir,  an'  de  ol'  woman  run  off  on  de  bush 
an'  yell "  Murder !  murder !"  An'  dey  end  up  de 
act  by  lick  dem  bot'  wid  de  ol'  gun-barrel ;  an' 
all  de  odder  feller  jus'  look  on  an'  laugh  ;  an' 
den  dey  take  all  de  w'iskey  w'at  was  lef,  an' 
go  on  de  camp. 

W'en  dey  all  go,  I'll  look  roun'  an'  I'll  don' 

268 


JOHNNY    RAWS  ON 

see  de  widdy,  an'  I'll  go  an'  look  on  dose  two 
'ogs,  an'  I'll  be  disgust'  wid  dem  ;  an'  den  I'll 
'it  Johnny  'leven  or  eight  kick,  an'  den  I'll 
kick  Mose.  Bagosh  !  I'll  never  kick  nodding 
so  big  like  dat  before,  and  w'en  I'll  get  t'rough, 
I'll  go  on  after  de  boys. 

Well,  de  nex'  day  Mike  was  gone,  an'  'e 
never  h'ax  for  no  pay,  an'  don'  tell  nobody 
w'ere  'e  go.  An'  Johnny  an'  Mose  don'  never 
say  nodding  ;  but,  bagosh  !  every  time  Johnny 
look  on  me,  I'll  get  col'  all  down  ray  back,  an' 
'e  make  me  sick  on  my  'eart.  An'  every  time 
'e  look,  every  time  I'll  be  sorry  for  kick  'ira. 

Well,  de  nex'  fall,  on  September,  one  day 
'bout  four  a -clock,  we  was  all  sit  on  de  store 
to  McTaggart',  an'  wait  for  de  up  stage ;  an' 
Johnny  was  dere,  an'  we  see  some  feller  ride 
up  so  quick's  'e  can,  an'  'e  pull  up,  an'  'e  say, 
"  Johnny  Eawson  'ere  ?" 

An'  Johnny  come  out,  an'  de  man  tell  'im 
somet'ing,  an'  'e  point  up  w'ere  de  down  stage 
was  come  on  de  odder  side  de  river.  An' 
Johnny  jus'  turn  an'  run  for  de  bank,  an'  give 
one  'oiler  to  de  driver,  an'  'e  don'  wait  for  no 

269 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

boat  uor  nodding ;  'e  jus'  wade  in,  an'  we  see 
'im  swim  over  an'  climb  on  de  stage,  w'at  was 
wait,  an'  swing  'is  arm,  an'  off  dey  go. 

An'  den  we  turn  on  de  man,  an'  we  say, 
"  Wat's  de  matter,  Sam?" 

An'  'e  say,  "Nodding's  de  matter,  only 
Johnny  'e  go  for  meet  somebody  w'at  come 
on  de  up  boat." 

An'  dat's  all  'e  say — an'  we  'ave  for  go  by 
the  nex'  stage.  But  on  de  nex'  day,  Av'en 
Johnny  catch  up  wid  us,  Mose  'e  say, 

"  Wo  you  was  go  for  meet,  Johnny?" 

An'  Johnny  'e  say,  qui't  an'  slow,  "  Oh,  dat 
feller  ?     Wy  dat  was  Irish  Mike !" 

An',  bagosh  !  I'll  feel  so  sick  w'en  'e  say  dat, 
I'll  go  'way  widout  'ear  w'at  arrive. 

But  dat  Johnny  Rawson  'c  was  good  frien' 
for  me  once,  an'  dat  arrive  like  dis : 

Dose  feller  on  de  shanty,  w'en  dey  li'eat  deir 
breakfas',  or  deir  dinner,  or  deir  supper,  or  on 
de  bad  wedder  w'en  dey  can'  work,  or  w'en- 
ever  dey  don'  got  somet'ing  else  for  do,  dey 
'buse  me.  Dat  was  deir  fon;  but  all  people 
don't  t'ink  de  same  togedder  'bout  de  fon  ;  an' 
de  wors',  was  Chunky  Peters.     'E  was  awful 

270 


E    LAUGH   WIDOLT    MAKE    NO    NOISE 


JOHNNY    RAWS  ON 

big  feller,  'mos'  so  big  like  Johnny,  but  more 
worse,  too. 

Chunky  'e  was  always  call  me  "  Pea  Soup," 
an'  "Banancr  Skin,"  an'  "  Roun'  Toe";  an'  ef 
'e's  Stan'  up  w'en  I'll  pass,  'e  mos'  always  give 
me  kick,  an'  ef  I'll  be  carry  de  soup  or  sorae- 
t'ing  'ot,  'e  yell  so  strong  'e  nearly  make  me 
fall  down. 

Well,  one  Sonday  I'll  'ave  pretty  bad  time. 
De  cook  'e  was  little  drunk,  au'  'e's  ver'  mad 
all  de  time.  'E  swear  ver'  strong,  an'  'e  call 
me  all  de  bad  name  w'at  'e  know.  An'  w'en 
I'll  carry  de  potato  for  de  table,  Jimmie  Green 
stick  out  'is  leg,  an'  I'll  not  see  'im,  an'  I'll  fall 
an'  de  potato  go  all  over  de  floor  ;  an'  Chunky 
'e  swear,  an'  'e  'it  me  awful  lick  wid  de  boot 
w'at  'e  'ave  on  'is  'an'.  An'  dey  all  laugh,  an' 
my  'eart  get  so  big  I'll  lose  my  win',  an'  w'en 
I'll  get  up  for  try  an'  gadder  de  potato, 
'nodder  feller  give  me  push,  an'  I'll  fall  all 
over  dem  some  more. 

Bagosh !  I'll  be  near  cry,  but  I'll  'ear 
Johnny  Rawson  say,  '"Ere,  you  damn  'ogs' 
lef  dat  boy  'lone,  else  you  wan'  for  talk  wid 
me  !" 

An'  den  dey  lef  me  'lone,  but  nodding  was 
271 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

go  right !     You  see  t'ing  go  like  dat   some 
time,  hein  ? 

Bymby  after  w'ile,de  dinner  was  all  t'rough, 
an'  I'll  be  'ongry  an'  tire'  an'  sore,  an'  I'll 
Avan'  soraet'ing  for  h'eat  bad,  an'  de  pea  soup 
was  good  an'  strong  dat  day. 

Well,  I'll  look  roun',  an'  I'll  can'  fin'  my  tin. 
'E  was  gone !  An'  bymby  I'll  see  Chunky  sit 
near  de  door,  an'  'e  'ave  my  tin  on  'is  knee 
an'  'e  cut  'is  'baccy  on  'im.  An'  w'en  'e  see 
me  see  'im,  'e  laugh  widout  make  no 
noise. 

Well,  bagosh  !  dat  was  de  las'  act !  I'll  not 
care  for  nodding,  I'll  only  wan'  for  be  'ome 
some  more.  An'  I'll  go  out  qui't,  an'  I'll  go 
on  de  bush,  an'  I'll  sit  down  on  de  log,  an' 
every 'ting  was  like  I'll  be  ver'  far  off.  An' 
bymby  I'll  can'  'elp  'im ;  my  'eart  'e  get  more 
big,  an'  more  big,  an'  bymby  I'll  t'ink  'e  was 
broke,  an'  I'll  cover  up  my  'ead  wid  my  arm, 
an'  I'll  cry,  an'  I'll  cry. 

Well,  dat  was  make  me  some  good,  an'  after 
w'ile  I'll  only  be  cry  qui't,  on  myself  like,  w'en 
I'll  feel  somebody  grab  me  on  de  shoulder. 
An'  den  I'll  make  myself  'ard,  ready  for  de 
kick  I'll  be  sure  was  come,  an'  I'll  'ear  Johnny 

273 


w'at's  de  matter,  fkenchy  V" 


JOHNNY    RAWS ON 

Rawson  say,  sof  an'  qiii't,  "Wat's  de  matter, 
Frenchy  ?" 

An'  I'll  not  be  sure  ef  'e's  not  some  joke, 
an'  I'll  keep  myself  'ard,  but  no  kick  come, 
an'  den  I'll  feel  'is  'an'  come  off  my  shoulder, 
an'  'e  put  'im  for  little  minute  on  my  'ead,  an' 
'e  say  some  more,  "Wat's  de  matter,  boy?" 
An'  den  I'll  can'  'elp  'im,  I'll  jus'  tell  'im  'o\v 
I'll  wish  I'll  Avas  'ome  wid  de  Little  Modder, 
an'  'e  sit  down  on  de  log,  an'  bymby  after 
w'ile,  'e  say, 

"  Look  'ere,  Frenchy !  You  wan'  for  be 
bully  boy,  an'  de  feller  won'  touch  you  some 
more.  De  boy  on  de  bush  mus'  be  de  man, 
an'  not  be  scare'  for  nodding.  I'll  see  dat 
Chunky  wid  your  tin.  You  jus'  come  'long 
wid  me,  an'  I'll  fix  dat  all  right!" 

Den  we  go  back  on  de  shanty,  an'  'e  tell 
me  w'at  for  do.  An'  jus'  w'en  we  get  dere,  'e 
turn  me  'roun',  an'  'e  say,  "  Now,  boy,  ef  you 
be  scare'  an'  don'  do  w'at  I'll  tell  you,  I'll 
lick  your  'ead  off  myself.  Now  go,  an'  don' 
forset  I'll  be  dere."  An'  'e  stan'  on  de  door, 
an'  I'll  go  on  de  inside. 

My  'eart  was  go  so  'ard  'e  almos'  bus'  on  my 
ches',  but  I'll  go  up  on  Chunky  an'  I'll  say, 
a  2T3 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"  Please,  Clmnk}^  dat's  my  tin."  An'  'e  say, 
"  Go  to  'ell !"  An'  I'll  say,  "  Look,  my  mark !" 
An'  I'll  turn  de  tin  top-side  down  on  Ms  knee. 

Den  I'll  don'  Avait  for  see  w'at  arrive,  I'll  jus' 
skin  for  de  door,  an'  I'll  feel  'im  be'in'.  An' 
I'll  run  on  de  bush,  w'en  I'll  'ear  Johnny  yell, 
"  Stop,  stop,  you  fool !     Come  back !" 

An'  I'll  look  an'  I'll  see  Chunky  was  down  on 
de  snow,  an'  Johnny  was  stan'  over  'ira  wid  de 
h'axe  'andle.  Den  I'll  stop ;  an '  Johnny  say, 
"  Come  'ere !"  An'  w'en  I'll  come,  ver'  slow, 
Johnny  'e  say,  "  Kick  'im !"  An'  I'll  kick  'im 
little  kick;  an'  Johnny  'e  say,  "Kick  'im  good, 
else  I'll  lick  your  'ead  off !"  An'  I'll  kick  'im 
all  de  'ard  I'll  be  able.  An'  Johnny  laugh,  an' 
every  time  Chunky  try  for  get  up,  Johnny 
knock  'im  down ;  an'  every  time  'e  knock  'im 
down,  I'll  kick  'im. 

An'  bymby  Johnny  'e  eay,  "  Dere,  French y, 
dat's  'nough  for  de  firs'  day!"  An'  'e  say, 
"  Now  go  on  de  shanty  an'  get  your  dinner." 

An'  I'll  go,  an'  I'll  never  h'eat  de  pea  soup 
so  good  like  dat  on  my  life. 


P'TI'    BAROUETTE 


P'TI'    BAROUETTE 

DAT  was  de  winter  of  de  big  snow.  Derc 
was  de  oP  Pliinee  Daoust,  an'  me,  an' 
Xiste  Brouillette  was  'unt  an'  trap  on 
de  'ead-water  of  de  Gatineau.  We  mus'  be 
near  de  'ead  of  de  St.  Maurice,  too,  an'  de  only 
place  near  was  de  Fort  Metiscan,  some w 'ere 
on  de  nort'. 

De  las'  camp  w'at  we  make  was  de  wors'  of 
all.  De  wedder  was  bad ;  de  col'  was  make 
so  'ard  de  game  all  go,  an'  de  snow  was  so 
dry  de  raquettes  go  almos'  to  de  groun'  an'  'e 
fly  up  an'  blow  roun'  like  powder. 

One  night  we  was  sit  on  de  fire,  an'  we  was 
talk  'bout  clear  out  an'  strike  down  for  de  Big 
Eiver,  an'  we  was  all  ver'  glad  for  go.  'E  was 
too  far  'way,  dose  place ;  de  day  was  too  short ; 
dere's  no  skin  w'at's  wort'  de  bodder  for  take 
'im ;  an'  de  snow  come  so  often  an'  'e's  so 
light  dere's  no  good  for  set  de  trap. 

277 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

We  'ave  buiP  good  cabane,  an'  'e's  no  bod- 
der  for  keep  warm,  but  dere's  not  too  much 
for  h'eat ;  an'  on  de  bad  wedder,  an'  every  day 
w'tm  'e  get  dark,  we  was  all  get  tire'  for  sit  on 
dat  fire  an'  lis'en  to  de  ol'  Phinee  tell  de  story. 
An'  dat  was  de  wors'  of  all.  Dat  ol'  feller 
know  all  de  awful  story  of  all  w'at  arrive  on 
de  worl'.  'E  tell  de  wors'  'bout  w'at  arrive  on 
de  bush  ;  'bout  de  feller  w'en  dey're  all  'lone  ; 
an'  'e  know  all  'bout  de  Windegos.*  An'  'e 
tell  dose  t'ing  on  de  night-time,  an'  Xiste  an' 
me  ver'  often  be  so  scare'  our  pipe  dey  go  out ; 
but  w'en  'e's  t'rough  we  all  laugh,  an'  try  for 
fool  de  odder  w'at  we  not  min'  dose  t'ing  w'at 
dey  tell  de  baby  for  make  'im  keep  qui't.  But, 
bagosh!  'e's  not  de  same  for  'ear  dose  t'ing  an' 
be  sit  on  de  fire  at  'ome  wid  de  ol'  modder 
w'at  sit  on  'er  corner  an'  de  girls  w'at  veiller, 
an'  be  sit  on  de  camboose  fire  near  de  'ead  of  de 
Gatineau  an'  'ear  de  ol'  feller  like  Phinee  tell 
dose  t'ing,  an'  outside  dere's  only  t'ousan'  mill- 
ion tree,  an'  de  snow,  an'  de  win',  an'  de  dark. 

*  The  VVindegos,  or  Windego,  is  au  evil  spirit,  general- 
ly of  gigantic  size,  which  leaves  mysterious  footprints  in 
the  snow,  and  is  much  dreaded  by  those  who  live  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest. 

278 


P'TP    BAROUETTE 

Well,  dat  night  Phiuee  'e  jus'  begin  for  say, 
"  My  poor  chil'n,  I'll  'ear  de  story  of  w'at  ar- 
rive on  de  man  w'at  was  fix  like  us  one  time" — 
w'en  de  dog,  w'at  was  sleep  on  de  fire,  lif 
up  'is  'ead  an'  give  one  bark  like  de  gun  go 
off,  an'  we  mos'  jump  out  our  skin ;  den  'e  run 
on  de  door,  an'  'e  bark  an'  'owl,  like  soraet'ing 
was  come  on  de  camp,  an'  I'll  grab  my  gun  an' 
start  for  de  door,  an'  Phinee  and  Xiste  come 
be'in'. 

We  look  w'at  de  dog  was  bark  for,  an'  we 
see  dere's  somet'ing  w'at  stan'  straight  up  on 
de  w'ite  snow.  An'  Xiste  'e  say,  "  Bagosh ! 
dat's  de  man,  any'ow  !  'Ere,  sir  !  Go  on  de 
'ouse,  you  pig !"  'e  say  on  de  dog. 

An'  den  I'll  shout,  an'  de  man  don'  sa}^  nod- 
ding. 

An'  den  Phinee,  'e  say,  "  Dat's  too  small  for 
de  man,  'e's  de  woman  for  sure,  or  p'r'aps  'e's 
de— " 

An'  I'll  say,  "  Don' !  don' !"  Dat's  awful  for 
'ear  de  ol'  man  make  some  jokes  like  dat  on  de 
night-time,  an'  somet'ing  out  dere  on  de  snow 
w'at  w^e  don'  know.  Watever  dat  w^as,  'e 
Stan'  dere  all  black,  an'  don'  say  nodding,  an' 
w^e  all  stan'  dere  too,  an'  look  an'  look,  an'  de 

279 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

dog  crawl  'roun  be'in',  and  make  de  noise  like 
de  baby  w'at  be  scare'  bad. 

Bymby  I'll  go  down  little  bit  from  de  door, 
an'  I'll  sa}-,  "Wo  was  dat?"  An'  I'll  'ear 
somet'ing  was  answer,  an'  de  minute  I'll  'ear 
dat,  I'll  wonder  'ow  I'll  be  so  scare',  an'  I'll 
run  down  fas',  an'  w'en  I'll  be  dere,  I'll  fin', 
not  de  woman  like  Phinee  say,  but  de  little 
Injun  boy,  not  more  nor  fourteen,  sixteen  year 
ol',  wid  'is  gun  'cross  'is  arm,  an'  'mos'  froze. 
Den  I'll  say,  "  Come  wid  me,  poor  little  devil; 
all  frien's  'ere,  plenty  fire,  plenty  h'eat"— an' 
'e  don'  say  nodding,  jus'  come  'long  be'in'  like 
de  dog. 

'E  pass'  on  de  inside  de  camp  like  'e  was 
dere  all  de  time.  'E  don'  say  nodding,  'e  don' 
look  on  nobody,  jus'  sit  down  on  de  fire,  all 
wrap'  up  on  'is  blanket,  an'  'is  gun  'cross  'is 
knee.  An'  dere  'e  sit  an'  look  on  de  fire,  jus' 
like  w'at  'e  see  somet'ing  far  'way  off,  an'  dere 
was  no  fire  dere,  an'  dere  was  nodding  dere, 
jus'  'im  an'  w'at  'e  see. 

Plilneo  put  on  de  tea  for  boil,  an'  w'en  'e  see 
de  little  feller  was  warm'  up  good,  'e  say, 
"'Ere,  P'ti'  Barouette!"  Dat's  Pliinee;  'e  al- 
ways make   some  joke,  an'  'e  give  de  poor 


P'TP    BAKOUETTE 

little  feller  name  like  'e  was  big  Injun.  Ba- 
rouette?*  Dat's  w'at  you  call  cle  w'eelbar- 
row.  Well,  'e  say,  '"Ere,  P'ti'  Barouette! 
Don'  look  too  far  'way,  h'else  p'r'aps  you  see 
de  Winclegos.  Drink  dat."  An'  'e  give  'im 
de  'ot  tea. 

De  boy  look  on  'im,  an'  'e  was  satisfy,  an'  'e 
take  do  tea,  an'  'e  'ol'  'im  long  time;  an'  bym- 
by  after  w'ile,  'e  go  for  sleep  dere  wid  de  gun 
'cross  'is  knee,  an'  we  was  sit  dere  an'  look  on 
'im,  an'  de  one  h'ax  de  odder  w'at  arrive  on 
dat  little  feller. 

Bymby  Phinee  'e  say,  "Dat  don'  make  nod- 
ding, all  dat  talk  !  I'll  go  for  bed,  me,  an'  de 
boy  'e's  tell  'is  story  to-morrow,  or  de  nex' 
day,  or  de  day  after  dat."  An'  den  'e  go  for 
get  up.  But  de  minute  'e  move,  de  boy  jump 
up  wid  'is  eye  wide  open,  an'  frow  up  'is  gun 
like  'e  go  for  shoot;  but  I'll  knock  de  gun  up, 
an'  before  'e  know,  Phinee  'ave  'im  safe,  an' 
'e  say  sof  an'  kin',  like  e'  was  talk  to  de  wom- 

*Tlie  Frencb-Canadiau  lias  a  curious  trick  of  transpos- 
ing letters  in  certain  words  ;  thus,  crocodile  becomes  coco- 
drile;  St.  Sulpice,  St.  Suplice;  Carolina,  Calorina.  Here 
Melcbior  transforms  Broucttc,  a  wheelbarrow,  into  Ba- 
rouette. 

281 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

an,  "  Dere,  dere,  my  poor  little  cabbage!  jus' 
you  lie  down,  an'  nobody  don'  touch  you 
'ere." 

But  de  boy  back  over  on  de  corner,  an'  'e 
Stan'  dere,  an'  every  time  we  move  'e  was 
watch  us  like  de  cat  watch  de  dog. 

Xiste  'e  say,  "Bagosh!  Melchior,  I'll  don' 
like  de  way  dat  boy  look  wid  'is  eye;  dat 
make  de  bad  luck." 

But  Phinee  'e  say,  "Ah,  tut,  tut,  tut!  de 
boy's  scare'  bad  wid  somet'ing,  dat's  all!  Go 
for  sleep,  an'  don'  min'  'im." 

An'  bymby,  sure  'nough,  de  boy  slide  down 
on  'is  'eels,  an'  bymby  'e  go  for  sleep  on  de 
corner,  an'  everyt'ing  was  qui't  some  more, 
only  outside  de  tree  w^'at  crack  wid  de  fros'. 

On  de  middle  of  de  night  I'll  wake  up,  for 
'e's  my  turn  for  fix  de  fire,  an'  I'll  look  over 
on  de  boy,  an'  I'll  see  'im  dere  sit  up  on  'is  cor- 
ner wid  'is  eye  fas'  shut.  But  de  minute  I'll 
take  de  firs'  step,  'e  jump  up  like  de  firs'  time, 
an'  start  for  t'row  up  'is  'an's,  like  e'  'ave  de 
gun ;  an'  w^'en  'e  fin'  dat's  gone,  'e  drop  down 
on  'is  knee,  an'  'is  two  'an's  up  over  'is  eye, 
an'  'e  say,  sof  an'  quick,  "Shoot!  shoot!"  In- 
jun way.     Den  bymby  after  w'ile,  'e  take  'is 

282 


P'TI'    BAROUETTE 

'all's  down  off  'is  face,  an'  look  on  me  ver'  'ard, 
an'  den  'e  crawl  over  on  'is  blanket,  an'  lie 
down  widont  say  nodding  more.  Bagosh  !  I'll 
fin'  dat  founy !  I'll  not  know^  w'at  for  t'ink,  an' 
so  I'll  fix  de  fire,  an'  I'll  go  back  on  my  bunk, 
an'  I'll  go  for  sleep  myself. 

Well,  de  nex'  day  de  boy  was  not  be  so 
scare'.  'E  b'eat  w'at  we  give  'im,  but  'e  don' 
say  nodding.  An'  Phinee  try  Injun  talk  wid 
'im,  but  dat  don'  make  nodding  too.  An'  dey 
begin  for  say  de  boy  can'  talk  any'ow.  But 
I'll  tell  Phinee  w^'at  I'll  'ear,  an'  'e  say,— 

"  Dat's  correc'.  'E  go  for  tell  de  story  bym- 
by,  w'en  I'll  li'ax  'im." 

Wen  we  break  de  camp  an'  start  for  de  Big 
Eiver,  I'll  make  de  boy  do  de  work  like  de 
res',  an'  de  day  after  we  lef  'e  say  "  Via  !" 
w'en  'e  'ear  me  h'ax  for  de  strap  w'at  was 
be'in'  me.  An'  after  dat'e  speak  little  more, 
an'  little  more;  but  'e  was  de  Injun  boy,  an' 
all  w'at  'e  say  not  make  ver'  long  string  ef  'e 
was  say  'im  all  to  once.  But  de  t'ing  was,  'e 
cmi  speak  ;  an'  'e  can  speak  de  French  pretty 
good,  too. 

I'll  see  Phinee  was  watch  de  boy,  an'  one 

283 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

night,  w'en  we  was  'ave  de  supper,  'e  look  ver' 
'ai'cl  on  de  boy,  w'at  begin  for  look  like  de 
live  Injun  some  more,  an'  'e  say, — 

"  I'll  'ave  'im !  You're  de  son  to  de  Canard 
Noir.  I'll  see  you  wid  'im  on  de  Spanish.  River, 
two  year  pas'." 

An',  bagosh!  w'en  'e  say  dat,  de  little  feller 
get  scare',  like  'e  was  de  firs'  night,  an'  'e  be- 
gin for  tell  de  lie;  but  Phinee  say  to  every- 
t'ing  w'at  'e  say, — 

'■'- Dat\s  not  good!  Dat^s  not  good!  I'll 
know  de  Injun  like  I'll  know  de  dog.  You're 
de  son  to  de  Canard  Noir!" 

An'  dat  night  we  was  'wake  up  by  de  dog, 
an'  we  jump  on  time  for  see  Phinee  run  out 
on  de  dark,  an'  bymby  'e  come  back,  an.'  'e 
'ave  le  P'ti'  Barouette  wid  'im,  an'  'e  say, 
"Now  you  try  an'  run  'way  some  more  an' 
I'll  cut  out  your  'eart,  an'  I'll  give  'im  to  de 
Windegos  for  h'eat!"  An'  de  boy  'e  look 
like  'e  die,  'e  was  so  scare'. 

An'  bymby  Phinee  'e  say,  "  Now  dere's  no 
good  for  go  on  like  dis  wa3^  Tell  us  w'at's  de 
trouble,  an'  'ow  'e  was  arrive," 

Den  we  all  sit  on  de  fire,  an'  bjnnby  de  boy 
begin  for  speak,  an'  'e  tell  us  'ow  'e  is  de 
284 


'■TJldliUjIS^' 


•.•'^^^•' 


"  '  DE   CANAKD    NOIR   SIT   DEUE   AN"    WON'    GO    OUT 


P'TI'    BAROUETTE 

son  to  de  Canard  Xoir,  an'  'o\v  de  ol'  man 
was  sick  w'en  dey  start  on  deir  way  for  make 
de  'Odson'  Bay,  an'  'o^'  de  res'  dey  go  on  an' 
lef  dem.  Dere  was  de  ol'  man,  an'  de  mod- 
der,  an'  'ira,  an'  de  little  baby;  but  firs'  dey 
make  dem  good  cabane,  an'  lef  dem  plenty 
powder  an'  somet'ing  for  h'eat.  An'  after 
w'ile  de  ol'  man  not  be  no  worse,  an'  bymby 
'e  get  some  more  better,  an'  den  de  snow 
come,  an'  dey  wait  for  de  river's  take  so  dey 
be  go  up  on  de  h'ice. 

Bymby  all  dey  'ave  lef  was  h'eat,  an'  de 
f  ros'  was  make  some  more  'ard  an'  more  'ard, 
an'  every  day  dey  'ave  to  go  more  far  on  de 
bush  for  fin'  de  game;  an'  all  de  time  de  game 
was  go  more  far  too,  an'  every  day  dey  was 
more  'f raid  for  start  de  voyage  for  de  Bay ; 
for  ef  de  game  was  bad  dere,  'e  was  sure  for  be 
worse  w'en  dey  go  more  on  de  nort'. 

Den  de  storm  come,  an'  dey  can'  go  out,  an' 
b^nnby  only  de  wolf  an'  de  snow  was  lef,  an' 
de  Canard  ISToir  'e  won'  go  out  w'en  de  storm 
was  over.  'E  jus'  sit  on  de  fire  an'  'e  smoke, 
an'  'e  don'  say  nodding  w'en  de  little  feller  fix 
up  for  start. 

An'  dat  day  de  boy  hardly  fin'  de  trail — de 

285 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

snow  was  so  dry  dere  was  no  mark,  an'  every- 
t'ing  was  so  change'  'e  can'  lin'  de  mos'  deir 
trap ;  but  de  little  feller  go  on,  an'  go  on,  an' 
'e  try  for  foller  w'at  trail  'e  fin',  but  'e's  no 
good,  an'  w'en  'e  turn  'e  was  mos'  die,  'e  was 
so  tire'  an'  'ongry  before  'e  come  on  de  cabane. 

'E  pull  back  de  clot',  an'  'e  crawl  on  de  in- 
side. Dere  was  de  fire  burn  up  good,  an'  dere 
was  de  Canard  Noir  w'at  sit  on  de  fire,  but  de 
modder  was  cover  up  'er  'ead  wid  'er  blanket 
— an' — dere  was  somet'ing  on  de  fire. 

De  little  feller  look  firs'  on  de  Canard  Noir, 
an'  den  'e  look  on  de  modder.  Den  'e  take  'is 
blanket  an'  'e  crawl  out  de  cabane  some  more, 
an'  'e  make  de  'ole  on  de  snow — an'  sorae'ow 
on  de  morning  'e  was  still  'live. 

An'  de  Canard  'Noir  come  out,  an'  'e  stau' 
dere,  an'  'e  say,  "  De  wolf  stay  'ere,  an'  de 
wolf  h'eat  an'  not  die."  An'  den  dey  bot'  go 
back  on  de  cabane. 

An'  now  de  boy  speak  only  Injun  way. 

'E  tol'  us  'ow  bymby  dey  was  'ongry  some 
more;  'ow  de  modder  an'  de  Canard  Noir  sit 
dere  on  de  fire  an'  won'  go  out ;  'ow  'e  see  de 
modder  was  watch  de  Canard  Noir,  an'  'ow  'e 

286 


#Si 


f\ 


/-,|1. 


t  >   :  .i-  •  'X^'^'     ••'':'/     ^-^ 


"'an'  JTIS'   W'EN   DE   canard   see   'Ul    E   FIllE'' 


^■*' 


P'TP    BAROUETTE 

was  'fraid  for  go  out  an'  lef  dem  dere  wid 
deraself.  An'  'ow  one  day  'e  can'  stay  dere 
no  longer ;  an'  'o\v  'e  go  out,  an'  dere  was  no 
game;  an'  'ow,  w'en  'e  was  come  back,  de 
Canard  Noir  was  'lone  on  de  cabane,  an',  like 
de  firs'  time — dere  was  somet'ing  on  de  fire. 

Den,  jus'  like  de  modder,  'e  was  watch  de 
Canard  Noir,  an'  de  Canard  Noir  was  watch 
'im.  On  de  night  dey  was  never  lie  down,  an' 
cf  de  one  was  move,  de  odder  jump  up  for 
show  'e  was  'wake. 

One  day  de  Canard  Noir  say  'e  go  wid  de 
boy  for  'unt  too.  An'  dey  was  start  out,  an' 
do  little  feller  start  de  one  way,  an'  de  Canard 
IsToir  start  de  odder.  But  de  boy  not  go  ver' 
far  w'en  'e  look  roun',  an'  dere  'e  see  'is  fadder 
was  Stan'  dere  an'  watch  'im.  Den  de  boy 
know  Av'at  'e  was  t'ink,  an'  all  de  time  'e  watch 
be'in'  jus'  de  same  like  'e  was  look  on  front. 
An'  bymby  'e  was  sure  'e  see  de  fadder  w'at 
foller  be'in'.  An'  w'en  'e  see  dat,  'e  make  de 
start  like  'e  see  de  game,  an'  'e  keep  'imself 
low  down  on  de  groun',  an'  'e  run  quick,  till  'e 
get  over  de  top  of  de  'ill,  an'  dere  'e  'ide  be'in' 
de  tree  an'  wait. 

An'  bymby  'e  see  de  Canard  Koir  come  up, 
287 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

all  ben'  over,  an'  'o  move  sof  an'  fas' ;  an'  do 
little  feller  wait  till  'e  get  'im  clear  of  de  tree, 
an'  'e  fire  jus'  w'en  de  Canard  see  'im,  an'  de 
Canard  t'row  up  'is  arm  an'  fall  over  on  'is 
face  on  de  snow;  an'  de  little  feller  scream' 
an'  scream',  an'  den  'e  turn  an'  run  so  fas'  'e 
can,  widout  know  w'ere  'e  go ;— an'  dat  night 
'e  was  come  on  our  camp. 

Dat  was  de  story  'e  tol'  us  dat  night,  an' 
all  de  time  'e  was  speak  sof  an'  qui't,  Injun 
way ;  an'  'e  was  tell  all  dat  like  'e  was  arrive 
on  some  odder  people,  an'  not  on  'im.  An' 
w'en  'e  was  t'rough,  'e  go  off  on  'is  blanket 
an'  sleep,  like  'e  was  all  well  some  more. 

Well,  Ave  was  talk  an'  talk,  an'  we  h'ax  w'at 
was  bes'  for  do,  an'  we  don'  know.  Phinee,  'e 
say  dere's  no  good  for  'ang  de  boy,  an'  dey 
be  'ang  'im  sure  ef  we  was  tol'  w'at  arrive. 
An'  'e  was  good  boy,  too;  'e  work  'ard ;  'e 
never  say  nodding  for  de  col';  'e  don'  talk. 
So  w'en  we  get  down  on  ISTotre  Dame  du  De- 
sert, an'  we  fin'  de  Pere  Gendron  was  pass  on 
de  settlemen'  for  make  'is  mission,  we  tol'  'im, 
an'  we  sen'  'im  de  boy. 
An'  de  nex'  day,  w'en  we  h'ax  de  Pere  w'at 
288 


P'TI'    BAKOUETTE 

'e  t'ink,  'e  jus'  say,  "Poor  little  cbil'!     Poor 
cbil' !"     Den  we  h'ax  'im  w'at  'e  do,  an'  'e  say, 
"  Do?    I'll  jus'  give  'im  slap  on  de  side  'is  'ead, 
an'  tell  'im  for  not  do  'im  some  more!" 
An'  p'r'aps  dat  was  de  bes'. 


LA    CABANE 


LA    CABANE 

ONE  winter,  me  an'  Xiste  Brouillette, 
we  make  'mos'  six  'undre'  dollar  wid 
de  skin  w'at  we  take,  an'  de  nex' 
winter  after  dat  I'll  say  I'll  not  'ave  no 
pardner,  jus'  'ire  two  men  for  work.  One 
of  dose  men  is  Injun  feller  from  de  Mission 
call'  Alexis,  an'  de  odder  was  de  "metif  "* 
call'  Joe. 

I'll  never  go  so  far  on  de  woods  for  camp 
like  dat  time.  We  was  take  five  day  for  get 
up  after  we  leave  de  settlemen',  but  we  'ave 
de  bully  place,  an'  we  buil'  good  big  cabane, 
an'  we  do  pretty  good  biznet  for  de  firs'  part 
de  winter. 

One  Sonday  morning — I'll  make  'im  some 
time  near  Chris'mis  —  I'll  get  up,  light  my 
pipe,  an'  go  out  for  see  de  wedder.  Dat  was 
fine  col'  day ;  de  sun  was  show  strong,  an'  de 

*  Metis,  a  half-breed. 
393 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

sky  was  col'  an'  blue  widout  no  cloud.  Den 
I'll  get  de  bucket,  an'  go  down  on  de  river  for 
get  de  water,  an'  w'en  I'll  get  near  de  'ole,  I'll 
see  de  moose  track  all  fresh  an'  new,  jus'  like 
'e  was  pass  on  de  'ole  for  drink. 

Bagosh  !  I'll  'ave  nodding  but  my  knife,  I'll 
be  in  my  shirt,  an'  no  raquettes,  but  I'll  can' 
'elp  'im,  dat  track  'e  was  too  strong  for  me! 
An'  I'll  drop  de  bucket  an'  start, 

De  snow  w^as  pretty  t'ick,  an'  I'll  know  de 
moose  can'  be  far  off,  an'  I'll  run  so  'ard  I'll 
be  able ;  but  w'en  I'll  come  on  de  place  w'ere 
de  tree  was  t'in,  I'll  see  de  moose  'way  on  de 
middle  of  de  clearin',  an'  dere's  no  chance. 

Bagosh !  I'll  feel  bad ;  but  dere's  no  good. 
Den  I'll  fin'  myself  wid  all  my  win'  gone, 
an'  so  tire'  I'll  feel  like  de  ol'  man.  Den, 
w'en  I'll  be  done  call  dat  moose  some  bad 
name,  I'll  start  for  go  back,  an'  I'll  be  so  drj^ 
dat  w'en  I'll  come  on  de  firs'  water,  I'll  break 
de  'ole  on  de  h'ice  an'  I'll  drink  an'  drink. 

Den  I'll  go  on  for  de  camp,  but  I'll  fin' 
dat  ver'  long  way  w'at  was  so  little  w'en  de 
moose  was  on  de  front;  an'  de  wedder  Avas 
make  more  col',  an'  de  win'  begin  for  blow, 
an'  bymby  I'll  feel  de  shirt  dry  on  my  back, 

294 


LA    CABANE 

an'  every  time  'e  touch  my  skin  'e  make  me 
jump. 

Well,  bymby  after  'while,  I'll  get  back  on 
de  camp,  an'  I'll  fin'  de  boys  'ome  from  de 
trap,  an'  dey  'ave  pretty  good  catch,  an'  dey 
'ave  de  breakfas'  cook'.  But  I'll  not  feel  like 
h'eat ;  my  'ead  was  'eavy  like  'e  was  fill'  wid 
sand,  an'  I'll  jus'  drink  de  tea,  an'  den  I'll 
crawl  on  my  bunk,  an'  de  boys  say, — 

"  Wat's  de  matter?    Ton  was  sick  ?" 

But  I'll  be  'mos'  too  sleepy  for  say  nodding; 
an'  I'll  'ear  dem  talk,  an'  w'at  dey  say  soun' 
big  on  my  'ead,  an'  bymby  I'll  go  for  sleep. 

An'  I'll  t'ink  I'll  be  sleep  'ard  an'  I'll  be 
sleep  long;  an'  w'en  I'll  wake  up  'e  was 
all  dark  like  de  middle  of  de  night,  an'  I'll 
not  know  w'ere  I'll  be.  Dere  was  big  noise 
go  on,  an'  I'll  not  know  w'at  make  'im. 
An'  I'll  be  col',  an'  w'en  I'll  try  for  get  up, 
I'll  fin'  I'll  can'  'ardly  move  my  leg.  Den  I'll 
put  up  my  'an',  an'  I'll  feel  de  wall,  an'  I'll 
know  w'ere  I'll  be. 

An'  den  I'll  call,,  "  Joe !"  pretty  sof,  an' 
nobody  say  nodding. 

Den  I'll  call,  "Alexis !"  more  strong,  an'  no- 
body say  nodding. 

295 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

An'  den  Pll  get  out  my  bunk,  an'  I'll 
shake  all  over  wid  de  col',  an'  my  legs  dey 
ben'  up,  an'  I'll  fall  over  on  de  floor.  Den 
bymby  I'll  crawl  on  de  odder  bunk,  an  'I'll 
feel  on  'im,  an'  dere's  nobody  dere.  I'll 
crawl  over  on  de  fire,  an'  dere's  no  wood  on, 
jus'  a  little  bit  of  fire,  w'at  show  like  some 
eyes  on  de  dark. 

Dat  was  scare  me!  Den  I'll  yell  all  de 
strong  I'll  be  able,  "Joe!  Alexis!  Joe!" 
An'  nobody  don'  say  nodding  some  more. 
Bagosh !  I'll  be  scare'  den  for  sure.  I'll  be 
'fraid  somet'ing  arrive  on  dose  boys,  an'  I'll 
not  be  able  for  do  no  good,  an'  dey  was  fall 
down  some  place,  an'  dey  die. 

Den  de  col'  come  on  me  some  more,  an'  I'll 
shake  an'  shake,  an'  den  I'll  be  scare'  I'll  go 
for  be  sick,  sure.  I'll  t'row  some  wood  on  de 
fire,  an'  bymby  'e  was  burn  up  good,  an'  I'll 
be  warm,  an'  I'll  feel  more  better;  but  I'll 
t'ink  on  dose  boys  off  on  de  dark,  an'  dat 
'mos'  make  me  sick  on  my  'eart. 

Den-  I'll  sa}'-,  "  Melchior,  don'  you  be  de 
baby !  Dem  boys  dey's  ol'  'nough  for  take 
care  demself.  You  jus'  get  somet'ing  ready 
for  dem  w'en  dey  come  'ome." 

296 


LA    CABANE 

An'  I'll  begin  for  stir  up  little.  I'll  cut 
de  pork  an'  I'll  fry  good  lot,  an'  VU.  boil  good 
big  pot  tea.  An'  all  dat  make  me  feel  more 
good ;  an'  de  fire  burn  good,  an'  de  cabane  was 
all  look  warm,  an'  I'll  t'ink  dose  boys  w^as 
pretty  glad  w'en  dey  see  de  fire  an'  smell  dat 
pork  an'  dat  h'onion  w'at  I'll  fry. 

An'  I'll  lis'en  for  long  time,  but  dere's  no 
soun',  an'  bymby  I'll  go  on  de  door  an'  I'll 
look  out,  an'  dere's  no  soun'  come ;  only  de 
win'  w'at  begin  for  rise  on  de  tree  an'  cry  like 
de  ol'  man  on  de  pine.  De  moon  look  sof 
an'  w'ite  like  de  snow  come,  an'  'e  was  ver' 
dark  on  de  groun'. 

Den — I'll  don'  know  for  w'y — I'll  look  on 
de  big  wood- pile  w'at  we  make  near  de  door, 
an'  I'll  don'  see  de  odder  toboggan.  I'll  t'ink 
dat  fonny,  but  den  de  win'  strike  me  col',  an' 
I'll  go  back  on  de  cabane. 

'E  was  look  so  warm,  an'  de  fire  was  burn 
so  good,  I'll  sit  down,  an'  de  warm  come  all 
over  me,  an'  I'll  'mos'  forget  all  'bout  de  to- 
bocffan,  w'en  all  to  once  Somet'ing  come — I'll 
don'  know  w'at  dat  was,  but  jus'  de  same  like 
on  de  door — an'  I'll  look  roun'  de  wall,  an'  I'll 
see  all  de  skin  w'at  was  'ang  dere  on  de  stretch- 

297 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND     NEW 

er — an'  'e's  all  gone;  den  I'll  jump  up  an'  I'll 
go  on  ray  bunk — an'  my  gun  'e's  gone  from  'is 
place;  I'll  look  on  de  corner — an'  all  de  ra- 
quettes  'e's  gone  too !  An'  den  I'll  know  w'at 
arrive ! 

Dem  boys  t'ink  I'll  be  sick  bad,  an'  dey  steal 
all  de  skin,  an'  dey  was  go  off  wid  everyt'ing, 
an'  lef  me  dere  by  myself  for  die  on  de 
col'. 

Bagosh !  I'll  don'  care.  I'll  be  so  sick  an' 
so  col'  I'll  can'  'elp  'im,  I'll  jus'  sit  down  an' 
I'll  cry  dere  on  de  fire. 

Den  I'll  say,  "  I^o,  bagosh  !  I'll  not  die, 
me !  I'll  get  all  right,  an'  I'll  'ave  dem  two 
fellers  'ang'." 

An'  den  I'll  go  over  on  de  door,  an'  I'll 
bring  in  de  wood,  an'  I'll  pile  'im  up  on  a 
big  pile  near  de  fire  till  I'll  be  near  dead,  I'll 
be  so  tire'  an'  sore.  Den  I'll  drink  some  de 
'ot  tea,  an'  dat  make  me  feel  some  good,  an' 
I'll  say,  "  Come  on,  Melchior !  Dere's  more 
work  for  you  to-night."  An'  I'll  take  de  two 
bucket,  an'  I'll  go  down  on  de  river,  an'  I'll 
fill  'im  on  de  'ole,  an'  den  I'll  fin'  I'll  not  be 
able  for  carry  de  bot',  an'  I'll  'ave  to  lef  de 
one  dere;  an',  bagosh!  dat  was  long  time  be- 
298 


LA    CABANE 

fore  I'll  get  dose  two  bucket  on  de  cabane. 
An'  w'en  I'll  start  for  fix  up  de  door,  de  storm 
was  jus'  begin,  an'  w'en  I'll  shut  de  door, 
'e  feel  like  de  'ole  worl'  was  shut  out  wid 
de  storm  an'  de  dark,  an'  I'll  be  de  only 
man  w'at  was  'live  on  de  bush  wid  my  fire 
an'  my  cabane.  An'  w'en  I'll  get  de  blanket 
out  de  bunk  for  pile  dem  on  de  floor  near  de 
fire,  I'll  feel  'appy,  I'll  don'  know  for  w'y  ; 
an'  den  I'll  get  all  de  bread,  an'  more  tea,  an' 
de  Pain  Killer. 

An'  den  I'll  put  more  wood  on  de  fire,  an' 
I'll  sit  dere  an'  wait. 

Bymby  Somet'ing  was  h'ax  me  w'at  for  I'll 
be  wait.  Den  'e  say,  "  Dere's  no  good  wait' 
for  de  boys !"  An'  'e  say  dat  over  an'  over 
more  nor  fort}^  time,  an'  every  time  w'at  'e  say 
dat,  my  'ead  go  round,  an'  my  'ead  get  more 
big  an'  more  big,  an'  sometime'  I'll  see  de  fire 
all  move  togedder  an'  swing  de  'ole  cabane 
wid  'im. 

I'll  try  for  say  de  prayer,  an'  I'll  try  for 
make  des  —  voeux,  de  promis'  —  but  I'll  can' 
remember  nodding  'cep'  dose  ol'  song  w'at 
my  Little  Modder  teach  me  w'en  I'll  be  de 
baby: 

299 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"Jc  mets  ma  coufiance, 

Vierge,  en  votre  secours; 
Sorvez  moi  de  defense, 
Prenez  soin  de  mes  jours." 

An'  dat's  all.  But  w'en  I'll  say  dat,  de  fire 
stop  for  move,  an'  I'll  not  'ear  dose  word 
some  more,  an' — dere's  one  t'ing  for  sure — 
Dey  know  w'at  I'll  li'ax  for  w'en  I'll  only  be 
able  for  say, 

"  Je  mets  ma  confiauce." 

I'll  tell  you  'ow  I'll  know  dat: — 

De  firs'  night,  'cep'  I'll  not  get  de  wood  an' 
de  water,  I'll  never  be  able  for  got  dat  sence ; 
ef  I'll  not  cook  dose  t'ing  for  de  boys,  I'll 
not  'ave  nodding  for  h'eat;  den  no  matter 
'ow  long  I'll  sleep,  dat  don'  make  nodding  for 
Dem — I'll  alwaj^s  was  wake  plenty  time  for 
roll  de  wood  on  de  fire,  an'  de  fire  never  go 
out  once ;  an'  one  time  I'll  wake  up,  an'  I'll 
fin'  big  'ole  burn'  on  my  blanket,  an'  de  fire 
was  put  out  'fore  'e  make  no  bodder ;  'e  only 
burn  long'nough  for  show  me  Dey  lis'en  w'en 
I'll  not  be  able  for  talk  no  sense,  an'  only  can 
say, 

300 


LA    CABANE 

"  Servez  moi  de  defense 
Prenez  soin  de  mes  jours." 

I'll  not  know  wedder  I'll  be  dere  for  free 
week,  or  free  mont',  or  t'ree  3'ear.  I'll  can' 
tell  'ow"  long  I'll  sleep.  An'  ef  'e  was  dark 
w'en  I'll  wake  up,  I'll  not  be  sure  ef  'e's  de 
same  night  'e  was  w'en  I'll  go  for  sleep. 

Sometime  I'll  wake  up  an'  I'll  fin'  I'll  be  sit 
up  on  de  fire,  an'  p'r'aps  I'll  be  cry  like  de  baby. 

One  night  w'en  de  fire  not  burn  good  I'll 
look  up  frough  de  camboose  'ole,  an'  I'll  see 
de  star,  an'  dey  look  so  near,  like  I'll  be  able 
for  touch  dem  wid  my  'an',  an'  jus'  like  de 
little  baby,  I'll  put  ray  'an'  up ;  but  de  minute 
I'll  move,  de  star  dey  dance  mile  an'  mile  'way 
on  de  sky,  an'  I'll  jump  up,  an'  I'll  scream  out 
wid  de  fright  w'en  I'll  see  de  little  fire  an'  de 
black  wall  of  de  cabane  w'at  shut  me  in.  An' 
after  dat  I'll  never  forget  w'at  I'll  be  all  alone, 
— an'  dat  was  de  wors'  of  all. 

'jSIodder  time  I'll  be  wake  up,  an'  I'll  fin' 
myself  kneel'  down,  an'  I'll  fink  I'll  be  on  de 
church,  an'  I'll  'ear  de  Cure  sa}^,  "Sursum 
cord  a." 

An'  I'll  make  for  answer: 

301 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

"  Je  mets  ma  confiance, 
Vierge,  ea  votre  secours." 

An'  dat's  not  do  answer  at  all,  you  know; 
but  I'll  see  de  candle  w'at  burn  on  de  altar 
like  de  little  star,  an'  I'll  'ear  dem  sing  des 
Noels ;  an'  den  I'll  begin  for  wake  up  little 
more,  an'  I'll  see  de  light  on  de  altar  get  more 
small,  an'  I'll  'ear  de  noise  like  de  people  was 
go  out,  an'  I'll  see  de  candle  on  de  altar  was 
go  out  too,  firs'  one,  an'  den  'nodder,  an'  den 
'noder,  an'  I'll  begin  for  get  scare'  I'll  be  lef 
dere  all  'lone,  an'  I'll  go  for  get  up,  an'  den — 
de  church  all  go,  de  altar  go,  de  candle  go,  an' 
I'll  see  only  de  fire,  w'at  dance  up  an'  down 
like  'e  was  glad  for  fool  me ;  an'  den  everyt'ing 
go  roun',  an'  I'll  'ear  myself  laugh,  an'  I'll  fall 
down. 

Wen  I'll  wake  up  I'll  be  col',  col',  like  my 
'eart  was  froze',  an'  I'll  t'ink  I'll  lie  dere,  an' 
not  try  no  more;  an'  den  de  col'  twist  me  some 
more ;  an'  I'll  look  on  de  fire,  an'  I'll  see  dere's 
jus'  de  w'ite  ash  lef,  an'  outside  I'll  'ear  de 
win'  on  de  pine  cry  like  de  ol'  man,  "  Dere's  no 
good  wait'  for  de  boys;  dere's  no  good  w^ait' 
303 


LA    CABANE 

for  de  boys!"  An'  I'll  crawl  over  on  de  fire, 
an'  I'll  move  de  ash,  an'  dere  I'll  fin'  some  fire 
w'at  was  'live  yet.  An'  den  I'll  crawl  over 
on  de  wait  an'  I'll  pick  out  all  de  dry  moss 
w'at  I'll  fin',  an'  all  de  time  I'll  be  cry  like  de 
baby,  an'  all  de  time  de  win'  call  t'rough  de 
wall  an'  down  de  camboose  'ole,  "Dere's  no 
good  wait'  for  de  boys !  Dere's  no  good  wait' 
for  de  boys !"  I'll  be  so  tire'  I'll  can'  go  ver' 
fas',  an'  all  de  time  I'll  be  'fraid  de  fire  go  out, 
or  p'r'aps  I'll  go  for  sleep  some  more  an'  I'll 
not  get  de  moss.  But  bymby,  I'll  'ave  good 
lot  on  de  ches'  of  my  shirt ;  but  I'll  be  so  tire' 
I'll  can'  crawl  some  more,  an'  I'll  pull  myself 
over  wid  my  arm  till  I'll  get  on  de  fire,  an' 
all  de  time  I'll  say  de  song  of  de  Little  Modder: 

"  Je  mets  ma  confiance, 
Vierge,  en  voire  secours." 

An'  dere  I'll  lie  down,  an'  I'll  can  'ardly  move. 
Bymby  I'll  try  some  more,  an'  I'll  take  de 
smalles'  wood  w'at  I'll  fin'  near,  an'  I'll  take 
all  de  moss,  an'  I'll  take  de  little  bits  pork 
w'at  was  lef,  an'  I'll  put  dera  on  de  fire,  an' 
I'll  wait  an'  wait.  I'll  try  for  blow,  but  I'll 
not  'ave  no  win'.  Den  I'll  say  de  same  song 
303 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

some  more;  an'  bymby,  firs'  de  smoke  come, 
an'  den  de  little  fire,  like  some  little  snake  w'at 
run  out  an'  den  in,  an'  after  w'ile  de  red  fire 
come,  an'  begin  for  climb  for  de  roof. 

De  smoke  was  ver'  bad,  but  de  win'  don' 
speak  no  more,  an'  I'll  put  more  wood  on,  an' 
jus'  be  near  fall  asleep  w'en  I'll  'ear,  hiz !  an' 
den  some  more,  Viz! !  an'  den  I'll  see  de  fire 
give  little  wriggle,  an'  den  'e  come  more  fas', 
hiz!  hiz! !  hiz! ! !  an'  I'll  see  dat  was  some 
snow  w'at  melt  on  de  chimbly;  an'  de  smoke 
come  more  worse,  an'  my  'ead  begin  for  make 
de  noise  an'  go  roun',  an'  I'll  jus'  begin  for 
say,  "Je  mets  ma — "  w'en,  tr-r-r-r!  down 
come  de  snow  in  a  'eap  on  de  top  of  de  fire, 
an'  de  fire  go  z-z-z-z!  an'  de  smoke  go  all  on 
de  cabane,  an'  I'll  can'  see  nodding;  an'  I'll 
'ear  de  win'  say  some  more,  "  Dere's  no  good 
wait'  for  de  boys !  Dere's  no — good — wait' — " 
An'  den,  I'll  not  know  nodding. 

De  nex'  t'ing  w'at  I'll  know  I'll  feel  I'll  be 
move — move — move,  like  somebody  was  carry 
me  wid  deir  arm  every  place  w'ere  I'll  be 
tire'  an'  sore  ;  an'  I'll  feel  de  win'  on  my  face, 
good  an'  col',  an'  den  I'll  know  I'll  be  dead, 
304 


LA    CABANE 

an'  de  angel  was  carry  me  on  le  Saint  Paradis, 
an'  I'll  say,  all  sof  to  myself: 

"  Je  mets  ma  confiance, 

Vierge,  en  votre  secours; 
Servez  moi  de  defense, 
Prenez  soin  de  raes  jours." 

An'  I'll  not  open  my  h'eye.  I'll  jus'  feel  dem 
goin'  on,  goin'  on,  an'  I'll  not  t'ink  for  nod- 
ding, jus'  be  'appy. 

Bymby,  I'll  t'ink  dere's  no  'arm  for  jus'  open 
one  h'eye ;  an'  I'll  open  'im  little  bit,  an'  I'll 
see  somet'ing  w'at  was  pass  quick,  an'  I'll 
know  dat's  de  fedder  of  de  angel.  Den  bym- 
by, I'll  look  some  more,  an'  I'll  see  somet'ing 
w'at  pass  some  more,  an'  'e  look  like  de  tree; 
an'  den  some  more,  an'  I'll  be  sure  I'll  see  de 
pine.  An'  den  I'll  be  'appy,  for  I'll  know  ef 
dere's  de  bush  on  le  Saint  Paradis,  I'll  be  all 
right — jus'  like  'ere. 

An'  den  I'll  look  down  'longside  my  nose, 
an' I'll  see  de  skin — bear-skin.  Well!  I'll  t'ink 
dat's  f onny !  An'  I'll  wait  little  w'ile,  an'  den 
I'll  look  some  more,  an'  I'll  see  de  skin  all 
right ;  an'  I'll  look  some  more,  an'  I'll  see  two 
men  w'at  was  walk  on  front  an'  pull;  an'  den 
I'll  try  for  lif  up  my  'ead,  an'  I'll  'ear  some- 
u  305 


IN    OLD    FIIANCE    AND    NEW 

body  say,  "  '01'  on,  Jim !"  An'  de  feller  on 
front  stop,  an'  somebody  come  up,  an'  I'll  see 
dere  was  four  feller,  an'  I'll  try  for  h'ax  some- 
t'ing  but  dey  say,  "  'Ere,  try  dis !"  An'  dey 
'ol'  de  bottle  on  my  mout';  an'  de  minute  I'll 
tas'e  'im,  I'll  know  'e's  w'iskie — an'  I'll  not  be 
on  le  Saint  Paradis  dis  time. 

Well,  dey  don'  let  me  say  nodding,  an'  I'll 
lie  dere  on  dat  toboggan  an'  sleep  mos'  de  time. 
An'  after  four  day  we  get  down  on  de  settle- 
men',  an'  dey  tell  me  dey  was  pass  on  my 
shanty  widout  see  nodding,  de  snow  was  cover 
up  de  'ole  boutique — w'en  all  at  once  dey  'ear 
like  somet'ing  fall,  an'  dey  see  de  smoke  come 
out  de  top  of  dat  pile  snow  w'at  'ide  every- 
t'ing;  an'  dey  start  for  dig  for  de  door,  an' 
dey  fin'  me  jus'  end  up  de  las'  act  'longside  de 
fire  w'at  was  go  out. 

No,  sir ;  I'll  never  be  able  for  'ear  nodding 
on  Alexis  an'  Joe. 

De  pries'  on  de  Mission,  'e  say  dat  don'  make 
nodding;  ef  dey  don'  be  'ang',  dey  bot'  be  burn 
some  day ! 

An'  w'en  dat  day  come,  I'll  not  be  cry, 
me, — for  sure ! 

306 


MAKIE 


MAHIE 

OYES,  de  Anglish,  dat's  ver'  easy  for  me 
for  speak. 
My  wife,  she's  Anglish  girl,  Marie. 
Not  Marie,  like  de  French  say.     No !     Marie, 
Anglish  way — Miirie  Boyle. 

She's  de  younges'  daughter  to  de  oP  Paddy 
Boyle  ^Y'at  work  on  de  mill.  Dat's  fonny  fel- 
ler, de  ol'  man !  'E  speak  Anglish  ver'  bad. 
'E  always  say  "  Bagorry  "  w'en  'e  go  for  say 
"  Bagosh  " ;  an'  'e  say  "  kittle  "  for  "  pot " ;  an' 
'e  wear  'is  pipe  topside  down  on  'is  mout' ;  but 
Av'en  'e  swear,  'e  swear  good  an'  strong  ! 

De  oldes'  girl,  she's  call'  Emmii,  an'  Xiste 
Brouillette,  de  son  to  de  ol'  Brouillette  w'at 
make  de  barr'l  near  de  church,  'e  was  cavalier 
to  'er. 

One  night  'e  h'ax  me  for  go  down  wid  'im 
for  veiller  on  de  ol'  Boyle ;  an'  all  de  way  'e 
was  speak  wid  me  'bout  Marie.     'Ow  she  was 
309 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

be  bes'  girl  on  de  parish ;  'ow  de  ol'  man  was 
give  plenty  money  Avid  'er  ;  'ow  she  was  work 
'ard;  an'  w'at  Emma  was  tell  'im  she  speak 
on  me  most  all  de  time. 

I'll  not  care  for  all  w'at  'e  say.  I'll  be  know 
dat  Marie  ever  sence  she  was  little  girl,  an' 
I'll  not  t'lnk  nodding  on  'er.  An'  ef  'e  was 
tol'  me  all  dat,  jus'  for  'ear  me  sa}^  somet'ing 
on  Emma,  I'll  not  be  satisfy  'im  ;  I'll  jus'  say, 
"  Dat  don'  make  nodding  for  me." 

De  ol'  Paddy  Boyle  'e  was  good  feller,  an' 
I'll  go  for  veiller  wid  'im,  to  'ear  'im  tell  de 
story  an'  make  'is  joke. 

One  night  'e  was  sa}^,  "  Wy  don'  de  young 
feller  get  marry?  Dey  work  'ard,  an'  dey 
t'row  'way  deir  money.  Dey  get  ol',  an'  den 
de  good  girl  not  'ave  dem  " — an'  'e  make  long 
string  like  dat.  Den  'e  say,  "  Look  dem  two 
girl!  Same  day  w'at  dey  get  marry,  I'll  be 
give  de  feller  w'at  take  dem  one  'ondre'  poun'." 

Den  I'll  say,  for  make  some  joke  wid  de 
ol'  man,  "You  give  'ondre'  poun'  wid  Emma, 
an'  you  give  'ondre'  poun'  Avid  Marie?" 

An'  'e  say,  "  Dat's  w'at  I'll  say." 

Den  I'll  say,  "Monsieur  Boyle,  I'll  take  de 
bot' !"     An'  I'll  don'  'ave  de  word  speak  afore 
810 


MARIE 

de  ol'  man  stiff  out  'is  leg  quick  an'  kick  my 
stool,  an'  I'll  fall  all  over  de  floor ;  an'  de  oF 
feller  laugh,  an'  Xiste  'e  laugh,  an'  de  hot'  girl 
dey  laugh. 

Bagosh !  I'll  be  so  mad,  I'll  start  for  make 
de  course  for  'orae ;  but  Marie  she  put  'er  back 
on  de  door,  an'  she  say,  "Ah,  Melchior !  Please 
don',  Melchior !  Don'  min'  de  ol'  fadder,  Mel- 
chior. Please  don' !"  An'  she  say  dat  so  sof, 
an'  she  put  'er  'an'  on  my  arm  so  pretty,  an' 
she  look  me  on  de  eye  so  like  she  was  go  for 
cry,  all  de  mad  was  go  off,  an'  we  go  back  on 
de  fire.  An'  den  we  was  all  laugh,  an'  de  ol' 
Paddy  'e  bring  out  de  bottle,  an'  we  'ave  de 
little  coup,  an'  make  good  frien's  some  more ; 
an'  dat  night  w'en  we  was  walk  'ome  I'll  say, 

"  Bagosh  !  Xiste,  she's  pretty  girl ;  'mos'  de 
pretties'  girl  w'at  I'll  ever  see." 

An'  'e  say,  "  Who's  pretty  girl  ?" 

An'  I'll  say,  "  Never  min' !" 

Well,  after  dat  I'll  go  on  de  ol'  Paddy  w'en- 
ever  I'll  get  de  chance,  an'  dat's  not  any  more 
wid  de  ol'  man  w'at  I'll  go  for  veiller,  me  ! 

But  Marie  she  don'  be  so  kin'  for  me  like 
dat  night  any  more.      She  laugh  plenty ;  she 

311 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

sing  all  de  song  w'at  de  ol'  man  h'ax  'er  for 
sing ;  she  lis'en  w'en  I'll  tell  de  story  'bout  de 
bush,  an'  'bout  w'en  I'll  go  for  'unt ;  but  I'll 
never  'ear  'er  speak  sof  like  dat  night,  an'  w'en 
I'll  speak  sof,  she  only  laugh  an'  laugh. 

But  'e  was  nice  on  dose  night!  'E  don' 
make  nodding  'ow  'ard  de  win'  blow,  or  'ow 
'ard  de  col'  make;  w'en  Xiste  and  me  open 
de  door  an'  bot'  de  girl  an'  de  ol'  Paddy 
was  dere,  an'  de  big  stove  was  roar  'mos'  so 
loud  like  de  win',  an'  de  fire  was  show  red 
t'rough  de  crack  an'  dance  on  de  wall  t'rough 
de  'ole  on  de  door;  an'  Emma,  'er  foot  go  up 
an'  down,  up  an'  down,  an'  'er  w'eel  'um  wid 
de  fire;  an'  Marie  she  make  de  stockin',  an' 
'er  'an's  de}''  dance  wid  de  needle;  an'  me 
an'  Xiste  an'  de  ol'  Paddy  sit  an'  smoke ;  an' 
we  tell  de  ol'  story  an'  sing  de  song  an'  de 
complaintes;  an'  de  warm  of  de  stove  'e's 
good,  good,  till  de  time  come  for  go. 

Xiste  an'  Emmfi  was  marry  de  nex'  spring, 
but  all  de  time  I'll  don'  get  no  more  near  Avid 
Marie. 

'E  go  on  dat  way  all  de  nex'  summer,  an' 
de  nex'  winter,  an'  de  nex'  summer  after  dat. 
313 


MARIE 

An'  dat  summer  clere  was  come  a  gennelraan 
from  Montreal,  an'  'e  was  board  wid  de  ol' 
Paddy.  'E  don'  do  nodding  but  make  de 
picture  of  de  ol'  mill,  an'  de  church,  an'  de  red 
bridge,  an'  de  river,  an'  de  trees.  No  matter 
'ow  big  dey  was,  dat  make  nodding  for  'im  ; 
'e  jus'  make  dem  so  small  w'at  'e  want  on 
de  picture.  Bagosh !  'e's  ver'  smart !  An' 
w'en  'e's  dere  tirs',  I'll  'elp  'im  all  I'll  be 
able. 

One  time  I'll  take  'im  up  so  far's  de  lake 
on  my  canoe,  an'  'e  Avas  'mos'  crazy  wid  all 
w'at  'e  see.  An'  sometime  'e  'oiler  for  some- 
t'ing,  an'  h'ax  me  for  not  paddle,  an'  'e  look 
an'  look,  like  'e  go  for  h'eat  de  'ole  boutique ; 
an'  I'll  look  too,  an'  I'll  don'  see  nodding— 
jus'  de  same  ol'  sky,  an'  de  same  ol'  water, 
an'  de  same  ol'  'ill'  w'at  spoil  de  good  farm, 
an'  make  me  tire'  for  look  on  'im. 

Ef  dat  was  all,  dat  was  all  correc' ;  but  dere 
was  Marie.  I'll  don't  get  so  much  chance 
for  see  'er  den,  'cause  I'll  work  on  de  quarry, 
an'  dey  was  pay  for  make  over -time,  an'  I'll 
stay  so  long's  'e's  not  be  dark.  Sonday's  de 
only  time  w'at  I'll  'ave  de  chance  for  veiller ; 
an'  de  ol'  Paddy  'e's  glad  for  see  me  work 

313 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

like  clat  an'  make  de  money,  an'  'e  tell  me  dat 
ef  Marie  say  3^es,  'e  don'  say  no. 

But  Marie  !  I'll  don'  know  w'at  arrive  on  'er ! 

Sometime  I'll  t'ink  'e  was  de  paint  man; 
but  'e  never  say  nodding.  I'll  never  see  'im 
'lone  wid  'er.  'E  jus'  work,  work,  work,  jus' 
de  same  like  'e  was  make  de  money  wid  make 
de  oP  mill  an'  de  tree  small  on  de  picture. 
But  I'll  see  Marie  was  always  wear  de  bes' 
dress,  an'  she  was  glad  every  time  'e  speak  on 
'er ;  an'  de  Anglisli  soun'  so  sof  an'  nice  w'en 
dey  speak  wid  each  odder. 

One  night  w'en  I'll  say  good-bye,  I'll  turn 
on  de  door  an'  I'll  say,  "Marie,  I'm  wait  long 
time." 

An'  she  say,  ver'  fas',  "  De  watch'  pot  never 
boil." 

An'  I'll  sa}'',  "  I'll  don'  wan'  de  watch'  pot 
for  Boyle ;  I'll  wan'  'im  for  me." 

An'  she  laugh  at  dat,  but  de  eyes  dey  don' 
laugh  wid  de  mout' — an'  she  don'  say  nod- 
ding. 

An'  dat  be  always  de  way  ;  I'll  get  de  good 
start  an'  den  I'll  be  stop  like  dat ;  an'  'e's  prett}' 
'ard  for  de  man  for  make  all  de  talk  by  'im- 
self  alone. 

814 


MARIE 

On  de  middle  of  de  summer  Emma  she 
come  'ome  for  make  de  ol'  Paddy  visit. 

'E  was  de  gran'fadder  now,  an'  de  little  fel- 
ler was  call'  like  'im,  Padd}^— Patrice  Brouil- 
lette.  De  ol'  man  'e  was  proud,  an'  Marie  she 
was  proud  too.  An'  she  was  wid  de  little  fel- 
ler all  de  time ;  'ug  'im,  an'  dance  wid  'im,  an' 
speak  wid  'im  all  de  time,  like  dere  was  no  big 
people  on  de  worl'. 

Dat  make  me  glad  for  see  'er  like  dat, 
but  sometime  'e  make  me  sore  on  de  'eart 
too  —  for  all  dat  was  make  nodding  for 
me. 

Sometime  she  laugh  all  de  time,  an'  don' 
let  me  say  nodding ;  sometime  she  was  cross, 
an'  den  I'll  can'  say  nodding;  an'  sometime 
she  was  qui't,  an'  den  she  don'  say  nodding; 
an'  ever}^  way  she  was,  dat's  bad  for  me ;  an' 
I'll  t'ink  sometime  I'll  go  'way  on  de  shanty 
some  more. 

Well,  one  day  we  was  work  on  de  quarry, 
an'  de  rock  we  try  for  bias'  was  jus'  on  de 
top,  on  de  new  groun'  w'at  Ave  open.  But 
dat  rock  was  'ard,  an'  we  "was  work  on  'im 
near  de  'ole  day,  an'  Ave  make  two  bias',  but 
'e  don'  come.  An'  de  boss  say,  "  Noaa^,  boys, 
315 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

make  dis  one  good  an'  deep,  an'  we  blow 
de  bottom  out !" 

Well,  for  sure  I'll  made  dat  good  bias' !  I'll 
not  be  mean  wid  de  powder,  an'  w'en  I'll  put 
in  de  brick,  I'll  tamp  'im  down  de  bes'  I'll 
know  'ow,  an'  I'll  'ave  dat  fuse  fix  like  'e  was 
grow  on  de  rock. 

Bjmby,  w'en  all  was  finish',  de  boss  sen'  all 
de  boys  off,  an'  me  an'  'im  stan'  dere,  an'  w'en 
'e  see  de  fuse  w'at's  outside,  'e  laugh  an'  say, 
"  Well,  dat's  long  'nough  for  coax  'er,  for 
sure!"  An'  den  'e  say,  "  Let  'er  go !"  An'  I'll 
light  'er  up,  an'  we  start. 

We  was  walk  over  on  w'ere  de  boys  was  'ide 
widout  'urry,  an'  we  was  jus'  be  dere,  w'en 
Tenice  Lalonde  jump  up  an'  swing  'is  'an's  an' 
yell,  "  Melchior,  look !  look  !"  An'  I'll  turn 
roun'  an'  I'll  see  de  little  Paddy  Av'at  run  'long 
de  top  of  de  quarry,  an'  jus'  be'in'  'im  dere's 
Marie  jus'  over  de  top  of  de  'ill,  w'at  walk  an' 
laugh  wid  de  flower  on  'er  'an',  an'  between 
us  de  smoke  of  de  fuse  go  up  like  de  little 
w'ite  snake. 

I'll  see  Marie  stop,  an'  den  de  laugh  go,  an' 
'er  face  was  w'ite  an'  fix  like  'e  was  froze 
w'en  she  see  w'ere  dey  was  come.     Den  she 

316 


MARIE 

call,  "Paddy!  Paddy!"  An'  de  boss  yell, 
"  Quick,  boy !  quick ! !"  an'  'e  start  for  de  little 
feller ;  an'  I'll  start  back  for  de  bias'. 

I'll  see  oiil}''  de  smoke  w'at  go  up,  an'  I'll 
not  know  ef  de  fuse  was  burn  to  de  top  ontil 
I'll  be  kneel  over  'im,  but  I'll  fin'  dere's  jus' 
'nough  for  take  good  'ol'. 

Wid  de  one  'an'  I'll  grab  dat  fuse,  an'  I'll 
squeeze  'im  all  de  'ard  I'll  be  able,  an'  wid  de 
odder  my  knife  go  "  pick,"  "  pick,"  on  de  tamp, 
for  get  de  place  for  cut  de  fuse  pas'  de  fire. 

I'll  s'pose  I'll  only  be  dere  for  de  smalles' 
minute,  but  everyt'ing  go  on  my  'ead  like  I'll 
be  dere  all  my  life.  I'll  say  I'll  mus'n'  pull 
too  'ard  or  p'r'aps  de  fuse  was  break.  I'll  say 
I'll  mus'n'  pick  de  tamp  too  'ard  or  else  de 
knife  was  break ;  den,  ef  I'll  not  cut  far  'nough 
down,  de  fire  go  pas',  an'  dere's  no  chance; 
den,  p'r'aps  de  fire  'e's  pas'  now;  den,  will  'e 
'urt  w'en  de  bias'  go  ?  An'  p'r'aps  all  dat  don' 
make  nodding  for  me  any'ow  ! 

Den  I'll  see  de  face  of  Marie,  all  w'ite  an' 
froze,  an'  I'll  say,  like  de  prayer,  "  O  God !  O 
God !  "  an'  I'll  risk  de  cut.  One,  two— one— , 
an'  de  fuse  come  'way  on  my  'an',  an'  w'en  I'll 
find  de  en'  was  not  touch'  wid  de  fire  I'll  try 
317 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

for  yell,  but  my  t'roat  was  all  stiff,  an'  I'll  'ol' 
up  de  en'  of  de  fuse,  an'  I'll  'ear  de  boss  say, 
"  T'ank  God !"  ' 

An'  I'll  look,  an'  I'll  see  'im  an'  Marie  w'at 
was  kneel  togedder  on  de  groun',  an'  dey  was 
cover  up  de  little  Paddy  like  dey  could  keep 
'im  safe  from  de  bias'  w'en  'e  come. 

An'  I'll  'ear  de  boss  say,  "  Dere,  girl !  dere 
girl !  don'  cry !  don'  cry !"  like  'e  was  go  for 
cry  'imself.  An'  den  'e  turn  roun'  on  de  boys 
w'at  was  run  up,  an'  'e  yell,  "Get  out  dis,  you 
fool !  Go  'ome  !"  an'  'e  swear  strong,  an'  dey 
go;  an'  I'll  not  know  w'y,  I'll  get  up  an'  I'll 
go  too. 

An'  bymby  de  boj^s  h'ax  me  de  question,  an' 
I'll  look  on  my  'an',  an'  I'll  see  I'll  'ave  dere 
dat  fuse  not  more  long  nor  'alf  my  finger,  an' 
ray  'an'  was  all  twis'  up  wid  de  fire,  an'  'e  was 
cut  wid  my  nail ;  but  dat  don'  make  nodding 
for  me  den ! 

An'  dat  night  late,  I'll  go  down  on  de  ol' 
Paddy,  an'  de  ol'  man  meet  me  on  de  door, 
an'  'e  jus'  take  me  on  de  room  w'ere  de  little 
Paddy  was  'sleep  wid  'is  modder.  An'  'e  can' 
say  nodding;  'e  jus'  slap  me  sof  on  de  back, 
318 


'"I'll  can'  'elp  'ni,  i'll  put  my  good  'an'  on  'ek  'aiu'" 


M  A  R I E 

an'  I'll  jus'  feel  like  dat  myself,  too !  An'  I'll 
not  say  nodding,  an'  den  we  go  back  on  de 
odder  room. 

An'  dere's  no  Marie.  An'  I'll  say,  after 
w'ile,  "  Marie,  she  was  sick  ?" 

An'  de  ol'  man  shake  'is  'ead,  an'  'e  go  out. 
An'  bymby  after  w'ile,  Marie  she  was  come  an' 
she  sit  down  near  de  table,  an'  she  'ardly  look 
on  me.  An'  I'll  speak  little  w'ile,  an'  I'll  see 
dat  don'  do  no  good;  an'  den  I'll  look  on  'er, 
an'  I'll  say,  "  Marie,  I'll  go  on  de  shanty  dis 
winter." 

An'  w'en  she  don'  say  nodding,  I'll  feel  my 
'cart  get  col'  on  me  like  h'ice,  an'  I'll  t'ink  'e's 
no  use  for  try  some  more,  an'  I'll  get  up. 

Den  Marie  she  put  'er  'ead  on  de  table, 
an'  —  I'll  can'  'elp  'im  —  I'll  put  my  good 
'an'  on  'er  'air,  w'at  was  sof  like  de  little 
Paddy. 

An'  de  minute  she  feel  dat,  she  jump  up, 
wid  'er  eye  all  bright,  an'  she  say,  fas'  an' 
'ard,  "  Wat  for  you  touch  me  ?  'Ow  dare 
you  put  3^our  'an's  on  me?" 

An'  I'll  say,  "  Dat  w^as  only  one  'an',  Marie  "; 
an'  I'll  'ol'  out  de  odder  w'at  was  all  twis'  up 
so  I'll  can'  open  'im ;  an'  Marie  she  jus'  say 
319 


IN    OLD    FRANCE    AND    NEW 

one  word,  an'  den  'er  two  arm  was  roiin'  my 
neck,  an' — 

Well,  dat's  Miirie  w'at  teach  me  for  sjDeak 
de  Anglish  good  like  dat. 


POSTSCRIPTUM 

Any  one  interested  in  tlie  actual  condition  of  the  French- 
Canadian  farmer  cannot  do  better  tlian  read  tliat  admir- 
able study  L'Habitant  de  St.  Justin,  by  M.  Leon  Gerin, 
F.R.S.C.,  of  Ottawa,  published  in  the  Proceedings  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  Canada  for  1898. 


JtoLejmaiu_JI 


^- 


In  old 
new 


France  and 


i.;^  ^,\^\^ 


f5il8651 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


